Commanding Officers
by Runawaymetaphor
Summary: Back in the Alpha Quadrant, Tom struggles with the burdens of command and Janeway struggles with the burdens of friendship.
1. The approach

I don't own them, I just borrow them to play with.

Commanding Officers

Chapter 1: The approach

Sitting on the shuttle, she was nervous. It didn't show in her face or manifest obviously in her behavior, of course. She spoke to the ensign who was piloting her in even tones. She made small talk about the young officer's experiences at the academy, his hometown in Indiana that was not far from her own. Gracefully, she made him feel comfortable (or at least as comfortable as he could be, piloting an admiral). Still, her fingers tapped of their own volition on the side of her chair, and her laughter was more forced than usual.

She was about to see Tom Paris for the first time in two and a half years. In so many ways, it seemed like the time had passed in the blink of an eye. In other ways, _Voyager_ and the Delta Quadrant seemed like an entirely different lifetime. He was Commander Paris now, and to her surprise and pride, had been given his own ship, the _Nighthawk_. It was a ship that he'd personally helped to design in his nearly two years with the Starfleet's advanced warp and engineering facility. Upon joining the facility, he'd promptly been made a Lieutenant Commander—a surprising turn for an officer who'd only hoped to keep his commission upon returning to the Alpha Quadrant. But as the Federation struggled to rebuild after the war with the Dominion, it eagerly poured resources into strategic and technological advances. Luckily for Tom, his breaking of the Warp Ten barrier had turned heads back home.

In the wake of the war, with so many officers lost and spirits broken, Starfleet hadn't been slow to look beyond Tom's past and even his occasional breech of protocols in Delta Quadrant; especially with Admiral Janeway's sterling recommendation of him. "It's not that they believe in me, not really. It's just that they think I can give them more than I can screw up," Tom had said to her upon accepting his position at the facility. He hadn't said it with the rancor and bitterness that so often colored his remarks when she first met him. It was simply an observation, and an astute one at the time. Starfleet didn't want him, but what they thought he could deliver. And they could cast him aside just as quickly as they promoted him, without a second thought.

That was more than two years ago, and it was the last time she'd spoken to him directly. It was only a few months after they'd returned home, disoriented and groping for normalcy in the place they'd spent seven years trying to get back to. Just after she'd been promoted to Admiral. And just before he and B'Elanna decided to file for divorce. She'd kept tabs on him at the facility, watched as his work took off; swelled with pride as he quickly became an up-and-comer in the eyes of Starfleet leadership, and in turn given command of the _Nighthawk_. Given Tom's rank, the obvious implication was that it was a temporary command—that a permanent Captain would be assigned to the vessel after a preliminary period of testing and refitting. Still, even a temporary command was impressive and meant that Tom would be given his own ship in due time if everything went well.

As the shuttle approached the _Nighthawk_, Admiral Janeway was struck by the vessel's appearance. Roughly, it was the same size as _Voyager_ and required only two dozen less crew members. She'd seen countless mock-ups of the ship, read enumerable reports on its advances. But none of these prepared her for how beautiful the ship was, nor how profoundly its sleek lines betrayed the identify of its designer. Something about its angles reminded her instantly and painfully of the Delta Flyer.

As the shuttle entered the ship's cargo bay, she found herself taking a deep breath. Why was she so nervous? This was Tom Paris, after all. She'd busted him out of jail, demoted him, promoted him, performed his wedding ceremony. Hell, she'd even evolved with him, devolved with him, and managed to procreate with him in between. And through it all, he'd always been the easy one to deal of the senior staff. She was being silly. It was just Tom! So why did she have a knot in her stomach akin to the one she got when his father had told her he'd wanted to ask her just a few questions about her senior thesis?

She stood as the shuttle's door opened, and was startled to see that of the group of officers who awaited her didn't contain Tom. As she approached the group, a female officer greeted her in a strong but pleasant voice.

"Admiral Janeway, welcome aboard. I'm Lieutenant Commander Rix, First Officer." The woman was Trill, and in her mid-thirties. Her dark hair was swept up in a ponytail, her large green eyes set in a remarkably attractive face. She moved with a self-assuredness that surpassed her age.

"Pleased to meet you, Lt. Commander, " Janeway responded, smiling. "I have to stay, even upon first sight, the _Nighthawk_ is an impressive ship."

"The Commander will be pleased you think so, Admiral. He'd intended to meet you here himself, but he's looking into a problem in the warp manifold with our Chief Engineer. "

"I see," Janeway said with a cheerfulness she didn't at all feel. She couldn't blame him for preferring mucking about in the bowels of his ship to greeting her.

"Let me introduce you to some of our senior staff. This is Ensign Riggs, our Chief Conn officer." She gestured to a nervous looking, dark haired officer who appeared several years younger than Tom was when Voyager first began its journey (But hadn't they all been young then? Even her?) "Doctor Norel, Chief Medical officer." She nodded to a blonde woman behind her. Her ears betrayed the fact that she was part Vulcan, but her fair coloring bespoke mostly human ancestry. "And I believe you know our head of Ops."

"Harry!" Janeway exclaimed, moving in to hug (now) Lieutenant Kim. She'd been so preoccupied with seeing Tom Paris she hadn't even thought about how nice it would be to see Harry.

"Admiral, it's only been a few months, but still it seems like too long," Harry said, returning her hug.

"I know. I still can't believe I just watched you get married. And the wedding was so lovely." Harry had married his girlfriend Elizabeth just that autumn in San Francisco. The wedding was simple, in an outside garden with thirty or forty friends and family. The weather had been cool, but not too chilly. Harry had played the clarinet at the reception. She had been surprised to find that Tom wasn't there, but it was just after the _Nighthawk_ was launched and he hadn't been able to get away. She felt all through the reception that there was something missing. She could tell that Harry felt it, too.

"How are you doing, being a newly wed out here?" In the interim period, spouses and children were not permitted on the _Nighthawk_. This wasn't typical even for a new Starfleet vessel, but Janeway supposed it wasn't totally out of the ordinary either.

"I miss Liz, " said Harry, his eyes wistful. "But this is great ship, and I'm happy to be posted here."

"Lieutenant, would you care to show the Admiral to her quarters and then to the briefing room?" Rix looked to Harry and then to Janeway.

"I'd love to, if the Admiral will have me as an escort." Harry smiled.

"I can't think of the last time I received a better offer." Janeway beamed.

. . . . . .

In her guest quarters, Admiral Janeway was busying herself with unpacking. She was slated to be with the _Nighthawk_ for two weeks. She would report on its level of efficiency, its general functioning, and she would recommend alterations to the vessel if necessary. She hadn't been asked to report on the ship's commanding officer, but that was to be expected given her previous working relationship with him. Starfleet expected she'd be too biased.

The trip was a much needed distraction from the daily grind at Starfleet Headquarters. The peace was an uneasy one, and the Federation was badly weakened. There were flare-ups with rogue Cardassian forces, renewed tensions with the Romulans. Only two days before she'd left, the Starfleet Command had authorized the destruction of a munitions plant rumored to be producing blackmarket weapons. She was grateful to be home, but the Federation they returned to wasn't the same one that they'd left. As Admiral Paris had joked grimly, "It was the worst of times, and it was the worst of times."

Just as she finished and considered replicating herself a cup of coffee, her door chimed. Hopeful, she answered it manually.

"All set Admiral, or would you like some more time?" Harry inquired, smiling at her. She felt a pang of disappointment.

"Oh, I think I'm ready, Lieutenant," she replied. Harry gave her a quick tour of the ship—engineering, astrometrics, the mess hall— before finally depositing her on the bridge, in front of Commander Paris's ready room.

"I'll let you and the Commander catch up before the briefing. The senior staff should be gathering in about fifteen minutes," Harry explained. It wasn't lost on her that Harry used Tom's rank. Did he always call Tom by his rank now? They were on the bridge, she supposed, though far enough away that no one could hear them. Harry Kim had always been a stickler for protocol, but he had relaxed some in the last two years. She didn't have time to contemplate it any longer. "See you in a few minutes, Admiral." Harry took his post.

She took a breath and chimed.

"Come," she heard from the other side. It was a voice she'd missed. Mustering her best Janeway swagger, she entered, smiling.

Tom was standing by his desk, pouring over a PADD when she entered. He looked up, and for a beat, maybe two seemed to be considering her. She was standing a meter in front of the door, smiling her most sincere smile, and hoping he'd just open his mouth and greet her already. In a second, whatever emotion that initially clouded his countenance dissipated, and he graced her with a toothy grin.

"Well, how the hell is my favorite Admiral?" He asked, approaching her, his right arm out-stretched as though to shake her hand.

"I'm well. But how will your father take coming in as second-place in the favorite Admiral contest?" She grasped his hand then, and, unexpectedly, he pulled her to him for a hug.

"He would consider it an honor given the competition," he replied, his chin above her right ear. She let go of a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, making no move to break the contact.

"I've missed you Tom." At this, he pulled away, smiling politely.

She knew that smile. It was the same one she'd worn at every trade negotiation in the Delta Quadrant. It was the same one she pulled out now when she had to go into a meeting with the full Admiralty.

"I've missed you, too. . . It's been. . . a while." His reply was measured, and somehow not what she'd expected. Perhaps he was letting her off easy. But this, she felt, was more painful.

"Too long. I know. But I'm here now. Even if in official capacity." She looked at him, willing him to see her openness. Her affection. Her regret.

"True, " he said, sitting down at this desk. "Perhaps we should go over a few things before meeting with the rest of my staff?" He was already pulling together PADDs, switching into work mode.

"Of course," she replied, sitting opposite of him and pushing down her disappointment.

"I'm not sure if my First Officer told you, but Admiral Picard and Captain Riker are also on board with us. They'll be joining us in the briefing room."

"Oh?"

"They're only with us for a few days. We'll be dropping them off at Zexan IV for the next round of diplomatic talks there." He stood up, and moved to the replicator. During the silence she wondered if Jean-Luc was on board to observe Tom, and, furthermore, whether Tom had considered the possibility himself. If so, it didn't seem to shake him at all. Perhaps he was more confident than the Tom she knew on _Voyager_. Either way, there were worse judges to have than Jean-Luc Picard. "Two coffees, Paris Blend 5. One black, one with cream. " The replicator whirred, and Tom returned with two large mugs.

"I thought you didn't drink coffee?" she asked, her face serious except for the upturned corners of her mouth.

"I didn't. But I was told that drinking coffee was a requirement of having one's own ship." He was already looking down at the PADD in front of him and taking a drink. He seemed so different from the free-spirited man who'd worked under for seven years. He was calm, confident, focused . She thought to herself, with some measure of pride, that he wore the command well. But beneath her approval lurked the sinking feeling that the Tom she'd known for so long was wasn't there anymore, even under the command mask.

She felt bereft, but she didn't know why.

"Also," Tom finally added, deadpan, "I think the smell of coffee wafting from the Captain's chair puts Harry at ease. Or at the very least, makes him think I know what I'm doing."

She laughed, inwardly relaxing a bit. And they both turned toward the data in front of them.

. . . . . .

The briefing after her meeting with Tom had gone mercifully quickly. On the way to Zexan IV, the _Nighthawk_ would be testing out its new engine modifications, specifically its advanced maneuvering abilities and its enhanced warp drive. They would leave Picard and Riker on Zexan, take on a few Federation diplomats, and return to the nearest Starbase for the next round of adjustments to the _Nighthawk_.

Admiral Picard had said little, although he seemed in good cheer. Will Riker and Tom had bantered easily as they were friends, having met two years earlier. Before she knew it, the meeting was over.

There was only twenty minutes left in the alpha shift, and Captain Riker had suggested to Paris after the senior staff, save Rix, had dispersed, that the five of them eat dinner together. The Admirals quickly assented.

"Commander Paris might even be persuaded to cook for us, " Will said, smirking at Tom. "I'm sure you've at least baked a cake for us, haven't you?" Picard was smiling, too, but Janeway wasn't quite following the joke.

"You should not confuse my profound affection and esteem for your wife with my sentiments for you, Will," Paris said, waving a finger at him. "Just because I once baked her a cake doesn't mean I'd make you so much as a grilled cheese sandwich."

"It wasn't just a cake," Riker said, looking to Janeway, as though the conversation was not between he and Tom at all. "It was a _nine__-laye_r, dark chocolate cake that he made from scratch. With vanilla frosting that he made from real vanilla beans he'd bought in France." They'd all spilled onto the bridge now, and the crew was listening with silent amusement.

"You're just ticked that Deanna refused to share any of it with you," Paris said, hovering in front of the Captain's chair. Janeway smiled softly. This was the tone Tom had used when he'd joked around with Chakotay. At least, once the two men had decided they could actually stand each other.

"Of course I am," Riker went on dramatically, "especially when she made me read your card out loud to demonstrate the fact that the cake was for _her_ and not for _us_." Everyone laughed, including Janeway. She silently wondered if Tom had always liked to cook.

He seemed to have a fondness for comfort foods aboard _Voyager_ and she knew that his parents, like her own, were traditionalists. Was this a side of Tom she'd just never gotten to glimpse before, or something that had developed when they'd returned home? She didn't feel comfortable enough to ask in front of Riker and Picard, but refused to examine why.

"I could have sworn I saw ingredients for lasagna in the galley last night," Rix said, regarding her CO from her post at the tactical station. "Are you sure you aren't holding out on us, Commander?"

"Perhaps I am, Rix," Paris said, sitting down, and gesturing for Janeway to do so as well. "But what exactly are you doing poking around in my galley late at night, hmm?" His voice was serious, but his face was amused.

"I needed a late night snack after our post-shift run," Rix responded innocently.

"You can't have a hungry first officer, "Admiral Picard chimed in, looking at Paris.

"No, just a hungry commanding officer. Commanding officers do not eat. Nor do they sleep," Riker added. Tom shot Janeway a glance, and she colored a bit, expecting a comment. But he only winked at her.

Her coffee benders and skipping of meals were constant themes on _Voyager_. And though Tom had been more subtle than Chakotay in his concern, he'd often turned up in her ready room with a sandwich or bowl of soup in addition to whatever report he was there to go over with her.

The banter had died down just in time for shift change. While Paris and Lt. Commander Rix spoke ship's business with the crew members taking over the bridge, Riker and Picard chatted with Janeway about their upcoming diplomatic mission. Once Paris switched his attentions back to his ship, it became obvious how tightly he ran it. He gave directions in a voice that left no room for questions, communicated with his First Officer in a series of cryptic looks and nods that only they seemed to understand. He even peppered the crew who were reporting to him with questions about minute aspects of the ship's status. Janeway listened with one ear as she chatted diplomacy on the far side of the bridge.

Eventually, all four officers piled into the turbolift, waiting for Paris. He walked slowly, talking somberly with Harry about a diagnostics report before getting in. It was as though an independent gravity source was drawing him back to the bridge. Janeway inwardly smiled, remembering the feeling, as the lift door closed in front of them.

"So how long is the _Titan_ docked for refitting, Will?" Tom asked after a moment, looking over his shoulder.

"Five weeks, total," the Captain responded behind him, shaking his head. Paris whistled. Janeway and Picard grimaced. Being away from one's ship was not an easy thing for a commanding officer. "At least the diplomatic missions are keeping me out of Deanna's hair."

"Well, we're happy to be your escort," Tom said, sincerely.

"Thanks." Riker's voice was pleasant. "You know, I told Starfleet that any waste or cargo ship would do." Everyone knew where was this was going and started to smirk. "I didn't realize they took me seriously until they told me _you'd_ be picking me up." Tom pretended to ignore Riker, instead turning to Picard on his right.

"All those years with him as your First Officer," Paris said, his voice seemingly laced with concern. "You must have fought the urge to throw him out of an airlock every day." Picard leaned in, as if sharing a secret.

"Thankfully, we had a wonderful counselor on board. And she happened to know what it was like to ignore one's desire to transport a certain First Officer out into space." The lift doors opened as Riker chuckled, and Tom and Rix led the way down the corridor.

"You're one to talk, Tom," the Captain retorted, still intent on needling the younger man. "Poor Admiral Janeway had to put up with you for seven long years in the Delta quadrant. Tell the truth, Admiral. It's why Starfleet promoted you. The heroism of your putting up with Tom Paris."

Janeway was surprised by Riker's comment. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate the humor; it was obvious that the Captain's barbs were harmless and that he and Tom were genuine friends. Rather, she'd fallen comfortably into the role of observer in the group's banter and she somehow felt awkward and out of place joining in. She and Tom hadn't had a chance to properly catch up yet, and she didn't judge it wise to start making wisecracks at his expense. She was grateful she was trailing the rest of the group, that no one was examining her face, as she mentally composed her answer.

"Sometimes, it was heroism," she said, nonchalantly. In front of her, she heard Tom snort. "But most days, I was just damn grateful to have him as a pilot and an officer." She couldn't see his face when she said this. Perhaps being in the back of the group also came with tactical disadvantages. The group turned to the right of a corridor, and doors opened to reveal a dining room furnished with dark wood furniture. They all walked in, circling the rectangular table in the center of the room.

"This is the formal dining room," Tom said to her. She assumed Picard and Riker had already been here before. "It connects to the galley, which in turns connects to the mess hall."

"A private Captain's entrance to the ship's kitchen. Your design, no doubt?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Well… there are a few perks to designing one's own ship." Tom looked at the ceiling. His sheepishness took her back to another time and place, and she laughed loudly, shaking her head.

"So… " Rix said, finally interrupting their exchange. Tom looked at her, expectantly. "What's for dinner? "

Paris rolled his eyes, moving to the replicator.


	2. Of food and caffeine

Chapter 2: Of food and caffeine

Admiral Janeway entered her quarters and called for the lights. It was almost twenty-two hundred hours and she still needed to review hours of data on the _Nighthawk_ before calling it a night.

The dinner had gone on much longer than any of them had intended, but the conversation had been pleasant, flowing smoothly from banter to ship's business and Federation politics, in alternating waves. Tom had replicated one of his favorite wines, as well as a beautiful assortment of rustic French foods. Admiral Picard had been profoundly pleased with the table of crusty bread, hearty Bouillabaisse, and vegetable quiche. Rix and Riker, however, had seemed genuinely disappointed that Paris was using the replicator to producer dinner.

"I do have a ship to run, you know," Tom had said, looking pointedly at the two, before filling up Janeway's wine glass. Rix seemed unphased, while Riker looked apologetic.

"This is truly wonderful, Tom. But I'd be lying if I said replicated food, even when made to your specifications, tastes as good as your cooking." Will smiled slightly as he adjusted the napkin in his lap.

"So now you're full of praise," Tom drawled, leaning back in his chair. "Where was all this good feeling earlier? Did it materialize on command when you realized food was at stake?" Riker made no reply; he simply grinned and forked another bite of quiche. "You wouldn't get any food even if I had cooked for you." Tom looked at Rix. "My First Officer would have polished it all off before you even got a chance to fill your plate. I'm just not sure where all the food goes." Rix's face remained serene as Paris needled her.

"It's true. I make no apologies for my appetite." She filled her plate with another helping of food. "The Commander has often asked if I'm not only sustaining a symbiant, but all eight of its previous hosts." The table laughed, and the conversation turned again, this time toward what it was like to be a Trill host—the intense training, what it feels like to take on memories of so many previous lifetimes.

"It's admirable that you don't find it all. . . disorienting," Janeway had said finally, leaning back in her chair and regarding the younger woman.

"Oh, sometimes. . . Sometimes it is. I feel that it gives me a lot of wisdom, mostly. But as someone once put it, it can get a little crowded in here," she remarked, tapping the side of her head with her index finger. At this, she and Tom exchanged brief smiles and Janeway realized there must be a private story there.

For the second time that afternoon, Janeway felt inexplicably bereft.

As Tom brought a simple dessert of cheeses to the table, the chime to the dining room rang. Paris called for entry and didn't seem at all surprised to see his Chief Engineer when the doors slid open. The man stood roughly at attention before his commanding officer waved him off, resuming his seat.

He handed Paris a PADD, no doubt a report, before Tom asked, "How bad is it, exactly?"

"Let's just say I wouldn't recommend it as bedtime reading," the officer replied. Mark O'Donnell was older than Tom, his sandy brown hair graying at his temples and above his forehead. His eyes rivaled Tom's in blueness. Janeway had met him briefly in the staff meeting earlier, but he'd been the first to slip out of the briefing room, eager to return to his work in engineering.

"Tell me you weren't working until this hour," Paris said, offering the engineer a plate of food. He obviously knew the answer, but wanted to make a point anyway.

"Of course not, sir." The Chief smiled, taking a seat next to Rix. "I left engineering hours ago and treated myself to a three-hour massage on the holodeck." Rix shook her head slightly. Admiral Janeway smirked. The man's gall reminded her of Tom when he was younger.

"Oh really." Tom feigned interest. "How was that?"

"You know, not as relaxing as I'd expected, despite that I'd borrowed Lieutenant Kim's Risa program." His faced appeared perfectly earnest as he spread butter on his bread. "I kept falling asleep during the massage, only to have nightmares that there was a problem in the warp manifold that I couldn't figure out. Despite crawling through every blasted inch of Jefferies tubes and conduit on the ship."

Tom regarded the man for a moment before breaking into convulsive laughter. The laughter proved contagious, and soon they were all shaking with mirth. "You mean you have that dream, too?" Paris finally exclaimed, still holding his side and chuckling. "I thought I was the only one. I guess that means I don't have to go see the good Doctor now."

The dinner had wrapped up shortly after this exchange, but in the interim Admiral Janeway watched silently as Tom and his two senior staff members bantered merrily. This wasn't the laughter Paris had enjoyed with Harry, Ayala, or the Delaney twins back on _Voyager_. Rix and O'Donnell were jovial but deffered to their commander; they respected professional boundaries of decorum, even around the dinner table. Still, the three of them seemed close, and Janeway thought it was remarkable given that the _Nighthawk_'s crew had only been together for six months.

She felt a deep sense of loss at not having her own ship anymore, and the smile slipped from her face without anyone noticing.

. . . . . .

Now, back in her quarters, she felt exhausted and disappointed. The day had been long, and she hadn't had a chance to really talk to Tom yet. It was late now. She had no doubt he was up and would be for hours; reading reports, going over data- just plain worrying. But she didn't feel comfortable showing up at his door at this hour.

Grabbing her toiletries from the bed where she'd left them, she went into the bathroom to her wash her face. There, she was greeted by a surprise—her bathroom had a bathtub. She was so happy she sighed out loud. But what was a bathtub doing in guest quarters, even if they were meant to be VIP quarters? _Voyager_ was one of the few ships to have such a design, and such luxuries had quickly been dispensed with when the war began.

With a thud, it hit her. Tom. He'd asked at dinner, randomly she thought at that time, if her quarters were comfortable enough. She thought it awkward small talk, but she realized now he'd wanted to know if she'd seen the bathtub. She leaned against the bathroom sink.

When he designed the ship, even before he knew he'd command it, he'd built the guest bathroom for her. Being an Admiral, she was bound to fly on the new ship at least a few times during its lifespan. To anyone else, the tub was a quirk, a design eccentricity. But to Tom, it was a small but personal gift to his former captain.

She felt touched. And then all the more guilty. Her eyes clouded with moisture. But then her door chimed, and she took several steadying breaths as she walked back into the sitting area.

"Enter," she said, finding her command voice. She was surprised to see that it was Harry.

Only twice had Harry come to her quarters on _Voyager_ and both times it was to drop off a report of some kind. Each time, he'd looked supremely uncomfortable. As if she was going to demote him if he touched the wrong thing, or perhaps breathed too heavily. But now, late in the evening, Kim stood in her door, smiling and looking completely at ease.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," Harry said, stepping in. "I know dinner broke up a short while ago, and I wanted to stop by before you went to sleep." This last part he said with a wry grin, as though to say he knew he would not be interrupting her sleep even if he stopped by at 02:00.

"I'm glad you did, Harry. Come in, sit down." She gestured at the couch and chair behind her. "Can I get you anything from the replicator?"

"No, I ate a late dinner, actually. But thank you." He took a seat in the chair, resting his arms on its sides. She sat on the couch, directly across from him.

"You just ate? What a shame! You should have joined us instead. It would have been nice to have you." Harry shifted, visibly uncomfortable for the first time since he'd entered.

"Did I say something, Harry?" Harry was silent, appearing to consider his answer. "Mr. Kim?" she pressed, unfairly referring to him now as she had so often on _Voyager._ It was a cheap manipulative technique and he had to know it, but it was nonetheless effective.

"I'm not sure that I would have fit in at dinner. . . " he began slowly, obviously picking his words carefully.

"Of course you would have! I know that Admiral Picard and Captain Riker are well known in the Fleet, but they would have been delighted to have you."

"That's not quite what I meant," Harry began again, narrowing his eyes as if trying to focus. It didn't help that she leaning forward on the sofa, staring intently at him. "Commander Paris and I have been close friends. . . obviously." Again, the use of Tom's rank wasn't lost on her, and she began to see the outline of the problem. "But here, on the _Nighthawk_. . . he's my commanding officer. And though I'm senior staff, there are officers who outrank me."

"You mean," she supplied gently, "there are ranking officers who Tom confides in, and spends time with ahead of you?"

"It's not that I think my best friend dumped me for others," Harry rushed to say, but she'd already understood. "It's not that he's off playing Captain Proton or hanging around pubs without me. It's that. . . he doesn't do those things at all now. And when we talk, however pleasant and familiar it is, it's usually about ship's business." Janeway saw the pain in the man's eyes, and she fought the urge to hug him.

"Running a vessel can absorb all of one's energies," she said simply, leaning back on the couch.

"I know that," he sunk lower in his chair, "and it's not that I'm angry or even hurt. I just . . . miss my friend."

"Have you told him that?" she asked, smiling softly.

"No. . . And I don't think I'm going to." She regarded him closely again. "I think we both know that there's no way around this while we're both assigned to the _Nighthawk_."

He was probably right about the last part, she knew. As much as the two men had been through together, there were burdens of command that now separated them. She struggled to find something comforting but true to say. Likely, their friendship would bounce back in a different environment. But if enough time passed, it might be too late. Intimacy was a tricky thing.

"I just worry about him," Harry said, interrupting her train of thought.

"How so?" Her eyes filled with concern.

"It's . . . one thing if he confides in Rix or the Chief instead of me. But he confides in them only about work. It can't be good for him that he doesn't have the ability to just be Tom anymore. To let off steam, talk about Miral. . . Talk about B'Elanna." Harry lowered his voice here, despite that they were alone in her quarters.

"Tom Paris is nothing if not resilient," she stated quickly, confidently. "I'd be lying to you if I said that the chain of command is never isolating, but I trust that he can handle it. Especially given that he has a devoted best friend watching after him." She smiled. "Even if it's from afar right now." Harry smiled. Not a full smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"I hope you're right, Admiral."

"I'm always right, Mr. Kim."

"Yes, Ma'am," he said standing. "I should leave you to rest now. But thank you for the chat."

"Anytime." She rose to walk him to the door.

"Admiral?" he said, activating the door sensors, but not stepping into the hallway.

"Yes, Harry?"

"Have _you_ talked to Tom yet?" The question caught her off guard, and she wondered what, if anything, Tom had said to Harry about the silence that had stretched between the two of them for the last two years.

"Not yet." Her face betrayed her guilt, but she didn't attempt to hide it. "I guess I've been watching after him from afar, too."

"You know, he'll be up for hours doing work . . ." Harry's implication was clear. He couldn't go to Tom and make things right; it was beyond his control. But she could.

"When, exactly, did you become so bold, Mr. Kim?" She put her hands on her hips, her right eyebrow arching.

"Somewhere between Ensign and Lieutenant, I think." He said, not seeming the least intimidated by her posture. "Good night, Admiral."

The doors shut behind him and she was left alone, again, with her thoughts.

. . . . . .

She'd tried to do work for an hour and a half. And for an hour and a half she'd been reading the same two paragraphs. With a heavy sigh, she tossed the PADD to the other side of the couch. Her mind was completely undisciplined, and the feeling of not being able to focus was beyond frustrating. "Computer, time?" she barked, resting her head against the side of the couch.

"The time is 23:47." She closed her eyes. 

_There's no time like the present, Kathryn._

She stood up from her semi-reclining position on the couch. She went to the bathroom, ran a comb through her hair and reapplied her lipstick. She contemplated her reflection in the mirror. She looked tired. She wasn't sleep deprived. At least, no more than usual. She didn't have the bags under her eyes that typically betrayed when she was exhausted. Still, her skin looked pale rather than porcelain and there was quality about her that seemed weathered. _I look old_, she thought. Worse, she felt old.

Walking back into the living area , she stood thinking. After a moment, she approached the replicator. "Computer, one thermos of cappuccino." Taking the silver cylinder that materialized in front of her, she moved to the door, but stopped short of the sensors. Walking back into the sitting area, she put down the thermos and took off her jacket, slinging it over the chair Harry had sat in earlier. Straightening her turtleneck, she picked up the thermos once again, and this time strode out of her quarters. Once in the hallway, she accessed the computer to locate Tom Paris' quarters.

When the computer chirped its response, she'd almost sworn out loud. He was just down the hall from her.

She approached his door cautiously, as though if she weren't careful she would walk right into a Kazon ambush. For a minute, maybe two, she stood in front of the door. Finally, she rang the chime. There was only silence initially, and she wondered if he was even in his quarters at all. Why hadn't she thought to check? Just as she was about to walk away, the doors opened. Tom stood in front of her.

He was still in full uniform, and he was looking at her curiously. She didn't know if he was surprised by the late hour, or that it was her. Perhaps both.

"Admiral," he said, finally. "What can I do for you?" He didn't motion her in, and she abruptly felt stupid standing there, partially out of uniform, holding a thermos full of coffee.

"I just came by to . . . say hello. And to catch up. We didn't really have much time to ourselves earlier." He was smiling that damn polite smile again. She fought the urge to flee. "I'm sorry about the hour, but I didn't really think you'd be sleeping." He looked down at the thermos. "Also, I brought cappuccino."

He backed away from the door, sweeping his arm as he did so. "Well, I can't really turn you away if you've brought me caffeine, now can I? Come on in."


	3. A start

Chapter 3: A start

She followed him into his quarters, looking around. The space seemed to be about the same size as the quarters she'd been allotted, but his furnishings made the space warmer, more personal.

"Grab a seat wherever you like," he said. "I'll grab some mugs for the cappuccino."

Immediately in front of them was the living area. To the left, there was a dining area and replicator, to the right, his desk and beyond his workspace, the door leading to the bedroom. She sat on one end of his couch, looking around the space. Draped on the back of the sofa was a quilted brown blanket that she knew must have come from Chakotay. He'd made a similar one, only in reds and yellows, for her last birthday. By the window behind his desk there was a mantel that had various models of the _Nighthawk_. On the wall to the right of the doorway there were a variety of photographs. She couldn't see all of them, but she could tell there were several of Miral. There were a few from _Voyager_, too. One was of the senior staff on shore leave. They were all sitting together outside, with a bonfire in the background. Her arm was draped over Tom's shoulder. She didn't have to look closer at the picture to know that Tom's hand held B'Elanna's.

Tom had music on, she realized, though he must have decreased the sound when she'd chimed. The song was ancient, probably from the twentieth or twenty-first century, as tended to gravitate toward that period. It sounded familiar to her. She could barely make out the singer's words, but once she did, she remembered the song quickly. It was titled "England," and Tom had often played it in the holodeck. The timber in the singer's voice was sad, but their there horns that were somehow heralding, triumphant. She'd liked the song as much as Tom did.

Tom sat a mug down in front of her, and she was jostled back to the present. He sat down at the opposite end of the couch, but angled himself towards her. Her mind was searching for something to say. She didn't know how to begin this.

"Are you alright, Admiral?" he asked, his face not betraying any emotion. "You seem distracted."

"I was just remembering this song and thinking about _Voyage_r," she answered, honestly. "You played it in Sandrine's sometimes. I always rather liked it." He paused.

"In so many ways, I can't believe we've only been home for two years." His voice was honest, open. "It seems like. . ."

"Another lifetime," she finished. Her eyes lingered on the photos for a moment. It was a moment too long. Tom noticed her staring and arched an eyebrow. She wanted to ask him about B'Elanna, about Miral. But these were private topics, and she was painfully aware she hadn't earned those privileges. Instead, she switched gears. "Your crew is impressive," she said.

"I certainly think so." He took a sip from the mug he'd just filled. "I think I got very lucky. Don't know that I could ask for better officers."

"You and Lt Commander Rix seem to be a good fit." She realized the secondary meaning of her words and regretted them. But perhaps they betrayed a thought that had been lurking in her mind all day.

"She's a formidable tactical officer, but good with personnel, too; incredibly adept at reading people on an individual level and at gauging situations." He smiled, looking at nothing in particular. "She got advanced degrees in archeology and anthropology before switching to the tactical track. I asked her what made her to decide to make such a massive shift, and she told me that it wasn't really. That people, individually and collectively, were driven by their past—that understanding where one has been is key to understanding one's motivations and goals." He turned toward her. "She and Chakotay would get along swimmingly" He scratched his face. "Come to think of it, her husband actually reminds me a great deal of Chakotay."

The Lt. Commander was married? She hadn't mentioned her husband, Janeway thought. Instead, she said, "You two already seem to have formed a trust. That's incredibly important."

She didn't know where she would have been if she and Chakotay hadn't gotten along as they did. She'd spoken to him just two weeks ago, but thinking of him now made her miss the man terribly.

"You must miss Chakotay a great deal." Sympathy colored Tom's voice. For a second, she thought she'd said something out loud, but then she realized hadn't. She swore sometimes that Tom had a kind of sixth sense for such things. On _Voyager_, it felt like he always knew when she was feeling particularly homesick, or when she was in need of a respite from work. And he was there, precisely then, with a smile or an offer to accompany her to the holodeck. Even after the Monean incident. Their relationship had been strained, but he was still, inexplicably, dutifully attentive to her as a person.

"Yes. I do," she replied, simply. "We try to speak as often as we can." She added, a bit strained, "and I visit him and Seven when my schedule allows." Seven had enrolled in the Academy, but found the experience frustrating and withdrew. (After all, what could she learn at the academy that she had not already learned from the collective knowledge of Starfleet captains and officers?) Chakotay was working in Federation's diplomatic core, and seemed to be pleased with his work, even when he found himself frustrated with Federation politics.

"I know. He told me. I think the last time I visited them you'd seen him just a week before." Tom dropped his eyes from her, choosing to regard his cappuccino instead. She tried to hide her surprise. She knew he and Chakotay spoke, but he didn't know they'd remained all that close after Tom and B'Elanna's divorce. "Still," he continued "it's hard to be without your best friend." Tom referred to Chakotay in this way as though it was a generally accepted fact. Perhaps it was, at least at one time. But it was different when you didn't talk to someone day-to-day. She thought silently of her conversation with Harry.

_Intimacy was a tricky thing._ If Chakotay was no longer her best friend, it meant that she didn't have one at all.

"What about you and Harry," she asked, "how is it having him on the ship with you?" His expression clouded, and he looked at her again. She waited while he considered his answer.

"Doesn't leave the room?" he asked in a voice that sounded like he was speaking to one of his officers, like she was some Ensign who he was about to break protocol for.

"Of course, Tom."

"If I had it to do over again, I wouldn't have had him assigned here.", he admitted, shaking his head. "We both know how fine an officer Harry is , but my choice was short-sighted. I wanted him because I trusted him at Ops. But also, I think I wanted my best friend with me."

"He can't be your best friend here." She wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. She was merely echoing the thought she knew he was having.

"Nope," he said, "Sure can't. Instead, I'm putting him through hell because he wants to be my friend, but instead I'm his commanding officer. To say nothing of the fact that I've now put out of reach to myself my oldest and dearest pal." His voice wasn't angry or bitter. But it was laced with regret.

"I know that I'm not Harry, Tom. But I'm here. And you can talk to me." He regarded her with yet another an expression she couldn't read, and she pressed forward. "I know that I let you down. And that I haven't been there the last two years." He tried to wave her off, not necessarily an act of forgiveness, but a sign that he didn't want to go down this path. "No, Tom, let me finish. You tried to contact me, you wrote me. Time and time again. And I never responded. And I'm sorry."

"The burdens of command are heavy. The burdens of admiralty are heavier." He was excusing her, but it was an excuse neither of them bought. She sighed.

"I don't want your forgiveness, Tom. At least not right now. I think you would give it too freely. But I'm saying. . ." His arm was draped on the back of the coach, stretched out between them. She reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing. "I'm saying you don't have to forgive me to talk to me. Right here, right now, I can listen." She looked at him, her eyes pleading. "I can listen."

His eyes fluttered over her, considering her words. His face was still unreadable. It was if the mask of glibness he wore on _Voyager_ had been replaced by a permanent poker face. Or perhaps it was only permanent when it came to her? She didn't let go of his hand and she refused to drop eye contact. She was letting him know that whatever had happened, she was sincere and committed now.

He dropped the hand that she'd been holding into his lap. Her hopes fell into her stomach, into her feet, past the floor and then the deck and into the space below them. After a moment, he began to speak.

"I'd always thought I wasn't cut out for command. . . Even before Caldik Prime and all the mistakes that followed. I never saw myself in the Captain's chair." He face was still emotionless and he was looking at the stars rather than her, but his voice was open and filled with honesty. "I didn't think that I could put my personal feelings aside and become the job. And even if I'd been capable of it, I didn't think I'd want to. Had always been too emotional, too headstrong." He looked at her. "Too prone to substituting my own personal judgment for protocol and the command structure."

He wasn't telling her anything she didn't know, but his admission was still strange. He was rattling off with precision his greatest faults as an officer while he'd been under her command. But he did so without self-loathing or even, it seemed, regret. He was just being honest. And as many times as she'd had honest moments like this with Tom over the years, she couldn't think of one in which he spoke this way about his own shortcomings.

"But then my marriage ended, and I was suddenly alone. B'Elanna decided to take the post she was offered on the _Jackson_." The _Jackson_ was a science ship that was currently charged with investigating new energy resources. As it was a Starfleet vessel, it was technically a military ship, and so there was always an element of risk. But, comparably speaking, it was one of the safest kinds of jobs to have that involved a starship posting. "I understood. She was unhappy on Earth and needed to be back on a ship and near a warp core. But being away from Miral. . ." Tom shook his head and his eyes clouded. She wondered if he was going to breakdown, but he blinked and it was as though nothing had happened at all.

"It must be very difficult to not be with your child." She understood pain, had experienced profound loss in infinite variety. But this kind of loss she knew nothing about.

"It's like carving out part of yourself—the best part of yourself—with a dull knife. And then putting it down, and walking away. It's absolutely excruciating, and the pain never gets better. I quickly started looking for ways to fill my time, and work was the healthiest option available to me."

Again, he was looking at the stars rather than her. She didn't know what to say. She had spoken to Chakotay a month after B'Elanna had left with Miral. He had spent the day with Tom the week before and was worried about him. Tom's work at the research facility was going well, but it was obvious he was devastated by the dissolution of his family. She didn't make any attempt to contact her former pilot. Now, she sat in silence, waiting for him to go on.

"The ending of my marriage wasn't an epic battle," he said, cocking his head to the side and squinting. She hadn't expected him to go down this road, but she was willing to listen to whatever he was willing to give. "Sure, there were fights. But compared to the rest of our relationship, it was nothing spectacular. It was just that once we got home. . . It was like we didn't make sense anymore." She cocked her head to the side, mirroring his earlier movement. "Don't get me wrong," he said quickly, confidently, "it's not that I think B'Elanna and I only got together because we were trapped in the Delta Quadrant—that we were making the best of a bad situation, or settling, or just afraid of ending up alone. We genuinely loved each other, and when I look back our relationship now it still makes sense to me." He stopped, and moved his arm to the couch cushion, propping his head up with his hand. "It was just that whatever we had together. . . it somehow didn't survive reentry into Earth's atmosphere." His imagery was poignant and captured something so precisely. She nodded. She knew a few things herself about relationships that flamed out in the atmosphere.

"Anyway, the end was quick and merciful. Neither of us left the other, there was no storming out. But as much as I recognized that it was better that the marriage was over, it was painful to be alone again." He was taking up more room on the now, and so was she, their feet dangling off the center of the couch. Their legs were only separated by a few inches, but they didn't touch. He talked staring at her feet, his arm still propping his head up. "Married life suited me. I liked. . . having someone to come home, doing things together, sitting down to dinner with someone." Her expression was now one of comprehension.

"Is that when you started cooking?" She'd been wanting to ask for hours.

"Actually, I've always liked to cook," he said, looking into her face. "Food is all about the senses. It's earthy. It's not just about the taste, but the smell, the colors, the sounds. As a child I loved when my mother cooked. And when I was drifting around France, after Caldik Prime, I learned a lot about classic cooking techniques. But I didn't really understand the soulfulness of cooking then; being with people you care about, bonding."

"I don't remember you ever cooking on _Voyager_. Did you, and I somehow didn't know?" she was desperately curious now.

"You know, I didn't really. A few times on the holodeck, once down on some planet. But there were always the problems of rationing, and, more troublesome, Neelix's feelings. Could you imagine trying to borrow his kitchen for a few hours? He would have called a security team on me." She chuckled at this. "Still, it was on _Voyager_ that I learned the social value of food; all of us eating together, day in, day out. Think of how much more time we spent together, how many conversations we had because of that."

"I guess I never really thought of that before." It was true.

"Strange," he said, with a mischievous smile. It was one that hadn't been directed at her in two and a half years. Probably longer. "You always thought of everything." She laughed, sinking deep into the couch, and shook her head.

"You of all people should know by now that that was just the appearance that I worked very hard to give off."

"I'm not sure about that. Captain's mask or not, your ability to perceive things was always down right freakish." She snorted. "Of course," he drawled, still smiling, "you did have a few moments." In a different context, his words could prove menacing. His tone was light, however, and she didn't think to worry.

"Such as?" she pressed.

"When someone reprogrammed the Doctor to sing music from _Carmen_ whenever someone entered sickbay."

"You said you didn't do that!" She sounded outraged, but she was smiling. She remembered the incident well. The entire staff had been questioned by Chakotay since Tuvok couldn't ascertain anything from the logs. Tom had said that he didn't do it, and Chakotay had wanted to believe him. Janeway wasn't sure. She knew Tom wouldn't lie to her, but perhaps he might to the good Commander. At least, about something like this.

"Yes, I did. And I was telling the truth. But you," he pointed at her, "didn't believe me."

She let out a slow breath, as if stalling. Her father had often chided her for doing this when she was a child.

"No," she tucked a hair behind her ear, "I suppose I didn't."

"Utterly devastating." He didn't seem at all hurt.

"So. . . "

"So, what?" he asked innocently, sipping the cappuccino that was now cold.

"So. . . who _did_ reprogram the doctor?" She was using her command voice, which was utterly ridiculous given that they were stretched across his couch, talking in the wee hours of the morning. He seemed torn. He wanted to tell her, but he also wanted to torture her.

"Tom Paris! You tell me this instant!" She could tell that he was going to buckle. Perhaps it's why she didn't ask him herself five years ago. She thought he would have to out himself; that she would have to punish him. Little did she know, she would have to dole out much worse. That she would have to crush him, and herself in the process.

"Young Mr. Kim." he said, beaming with what had to be pride.

"_Harry_?" She sat straight up, her cappuccino spilling on her pants. She didn't think to wipe it off.

"Yep. I'd joked about doing it one day, when the Doc was particularly testy. But it was just something I said to blow off steam and make Harry laugh. I guess he went into Sickbay in the middle of the night and did it. When I heard what had happened, I couldn't believe it. It had to be Harry."

"I feel like I owe your Lieutenant a little chat," she said with a seriousness that didn't reach her eyes.

"Oh, I think Harry was punished enough. For the next two years, every time you asked to speak with him he was convinced that he'd been belatedly caught and would be summarily punished." She leaned back against the couch again, laughing. She could imagine Harry worrying in precisely that way. "One day he even rushed into my and B'Elanna's quarters, on the verge of hyperventilating. You'd asked to meet with him about some kind of 'tweaking' he'd done. You were talking about the Ops interface, but it was minutes before he realized that." She was laughing so hard now that her eyes were tearing, and her whole body was shaking. He nudged her leg with his foot to make sure she was still paying attention for the punch line. "B'Elanna had no idea what was going on, but he was in bad enough shape that she made him put his head between his legs and take deep breaths." Tears were streaming down her face now. He covered his own face with his hands, laughing.

Eventually, they both stilled.

"We were talking about something before our little foray into the crimes of Harry Kim," she said wryly.

"I believe it was your freakishness." He was dodging her. It was the first time he'd done so.

"Actually. . ." she nudged his leg with her own foot, "I believe it was your life after your marriage ended. We were talking about filling your time with work." They were both staring at each other now.

He took a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing.

"Designing ships, being in charge of a team, was in many ways a dream come true. At the research facility, I had what felt like unlimited resources to pursue things I'd always wondered about, little interference from Starfleet Command other than a general list of priorities."

"Sounds enviable," she breathed. Her work in the admiralty was one punctuated with limited resources. And interference.

"Maybe. But I missed being on board a ship. And living alone in the same apartment B'Elanna and I had taken when we first got back . . . it was less than ideal." She could imagine. Hadn't one of the reasons she'd said yes to marrying Mark been because she no longer wanted to come home to an empty house?

"And then you were offered this command?" she asked, attempting to silence her thoughts.

"And I didn't think twice."

She understood. When she'd accepted command of _Voyager_ she was supposed to be getting married. She left her family, her fiancé, and her dog. And then she ended up seventy years from home.

She still didn't quite regret it.

"It's easier than I thought it would be. . . I mean, the days are long and the work is never ending. And every time I think we've solved a problem, four more pop up in its place." He was gesturing with his left hand, conveying his frustration in a way reminiscent of his father. "But in the larger sense of commanding, it's easy; caring about everything, being absolutely obsessive about the good of the crew, forging working relationships with the staff." He shrugged. "I haven't had to force it. It just came. And it's been incredibly rewarding."

She realized that in the time that they'd been talking, he'd lost the emotionless expression he'd been wearing. His face was open, his eyes alight and expressive. She was staring at him.

"What?" he asked, appearing to sit up a bit straighter under the scrutiny. She wanted to tell him that she was proud of him. She wanted to say that she'd always been proud of him, but that her pride was now was full. Complete. This, however, was not the time. Her pride, though personal in nature, also reinforced their professional relationship. And that was the last thing she wanted to do at the moment.

"I missed you." Her statement was simple. Her face was open, her eyes full of affection and regret.

"I believe you said that earlier in my ready room." It wasn't quite a dodge, but it wasn't quite a reply either.

"I know. But I said it too soon before. You weren't ready to hear it then." He stared at her. "I missed you." She said it again, smiling but with sad eyes. He closed his eyes briefly, and then met her gaze again.

"That's good to hear. But I'm afraid I was missing you long before you decided to miss me." His voice wasn't angry, but his words contained accusation. She was flooded with guilt, as well as with relief. This was a start.

"I'll do whatever I can to make up for lost time."

"Well, I may just take you up on that." He swung his legs the floor. "But I suspect we shouldn't try to make up any more time tonight." She realized he was right. They both had work to do, and it was incredibly late. She was afraid to ask the computer for the time. She stood up, and he followed suit. Standing, she saw into his desk in the office. There was a stack of PADDS that she knew instantly he needed to get through tonight. She abruptly felt guilty for coming at the hour she did.

"I'm sorry I kept you from your work. You probably aren't going to sleep tonight now."

"Commanding officers do not comment on their sleep habits," he said wryly. "Besides, I'm glad you did." He was smiling at her, but it wasn't his polite smile. "And you brought me cappuccino." They were walking toward the door, and he was about to say goodnight when she swung back around. He looked at her expectantly.

"Thank you for my tub." She smiled hugely. "I didn't see it until a few hours ago. But it made me happier than you could ever know."

"I wondered when you were going to notice it." He chuckled. Her bathtub on _Voyager_ had become public knowledge around the fourth year of their journey. People had made jokes about it, though never to the Captain. Except, of course, for Tom. And Chakotay. "Do you have any idea how many time I had to defend that particular choice to Starfleet?"

Her expression became worried. "I don't suppose you told them. . ." He sobered.

"Of course not. Although my explanations were nothing if not. . . creative. I'm just sorry it's late enough that you won't be able to enjoy it now."

"Don't you worry about that. I have two long weeks, Commander."

The doors opened, and she stepped into the hallway. He shook his head, and she waved farewell as she walked out of view.


	4. A bit about bending

Chapter 4: A bit about bending

When her alarm sounded at 06:00, she realized she already had a headache. She'd been so relieved that the conversation with Tom had gone well last night that she walked back to her quarters practically on a cloud.

Until she realized how much work she had to get through before she could call it a night. Some she would be able to put off, but some of it absolutely had to get done that night. She'd finally crawled into her bed around 03:00. Now, she replicated her first cup of coffee, and then began to get ready for the day. Going into the bathroom, she wished that she had time to take a bath. Unfortunately, she still had work to get through this morning and she only had time for a sonic shower. She bathed and dressed, combing her hair before pinning it back. It was now too long to be worn down on duty. She applied her makeup (all but her lipstick, which she would put on just before leaving). Dressed, she replicated her second cup of coffee and settled on the couch with a PADD in hand.

Half an hour into her reading, there was chime at her door. She wondered if it was Jean-Luc, wanting to chat before joining Tom on the bridge. She walked over to the door and manually keyed it open.

"Tom," she said, surprised. "What are you doing here?" She assumed he had business to discuss. He couldn't possibly be here socially given that she'd just left his quarters five hours earlier.

"Joining my favorite Admiral for breakfast" he said, striding into her quarters. It didn't seem to occur to him that she hadn't yet invited him in. He walked to the replicator.

"Not that I'm complaining, but I thought you would hit your fill of 'favorite Admiral' time after how late I kept you last night." He was typing in manual commands to the replicator, and she was getting curious as to exactly what he was doing.

She wasn't offended by his presumptuousness. He'd taken similar liberties on _Voyager_, though never inviting himself to her quarters. Still, she realized that they were on shaky ground. She'd wronged him, and the man Tom Paris was now knew his worth. She found it hard to believe he was acting so freely with her now when less than a day ago he'd been treating her like a distant relative who was visiting. Someone to be respected and shown some degree of affection, but someone you ultimately didn't know and kept at arms length.

"You would think so," he said, not looking at her. The replicator whirred. "But I was told last night that you wanted to catch up on time. And I decided I'm cashing some in this morning." When he turned around, he had two cups of coffee and a plate of croissants in his hands.

"I see," she said, coming into the dining room. "You know I'm not exactly a breakfast person, right?" She scratched her head.

"That's fine. But if you don't eat a croissant, you don't get to drink this coffee." He held up the mugs and the aroma found her. It smelled amazing; much better than the plain coffee she'd replicated herself earlier.

"I'm pretty sure this is blackmail," she said, crossing her arms in front of her. He set down the croissants, as well as the PADD he'd carried in with him.

"Well, if you really feel that way I can just take my coffee and leave." Again, he gestured with the mugs and the tantalizing aroma washed over her. She shook her head, joining him at the table.

"I'm sure I don't know how you learned to be so sneaky." She settled in a chair, putting a napkin in her lap. He sat down across from her.

"My last commanding officer." Before she could respond, he placed a coffee mug in front of her; thus, successfully distracting her. She took several drinks before saying anything.

"This is amazing. And it's not even the same blend you replicated in your ready room." She was looking into her coffee up, staring at the liquid with the kind of amazement with which one would regard a newly formed star. He regarded her over his PADD.

"Nope."

"Hmm." After a few minutes and another cup of coffee, she went to the couch to retrieve her own work before joining him at the table. She plucked a croissant from the plate and began to slowly eat as she read. After a few bites, she stopped and held up her croissant to Tom. "There's chocolate in my croissant." She said it as though she'd just found an intruder in her ready room.

"It's a traditional morning pastry." He kept his eyes on his reading. "You can eat around it if you don't like it. The chocolate's only in the center."

She took a small bite. The chocolate wasn't too sweet; its hard texture was a nice counterpoint to the flaky bread. She popped another piece in her mouth. When the small chocolate center was gone, she discarded the remnants of her bread and reached for a new pastry. Tom smirked, but said nothing.

They mostly sat in silence, but occasionally she asked him questions about the ship, his work. His responses were courteous, but half distracted. Half an hour later, Tom put down his reading and looked at her.

"I should be getting to the bridge soon. I have work to do."

"But you've been doing work here." She, of course, understood that it wasn't different work. More work. But she was teasing him.

"Well I would stay, but as you've gone through all the croissants, I'm concerned that you'd soon rip me apart, hoping to find a chocolate center." He gestured to the pile of hollowed out pastries that lay between them. She arched an eyebrow and considered kicking him under the table.

"Go. Go to your bridge and get out of my hair." He snorted.

"Glad to know your gratitude for bathtubs and coffee is short-lived." He got up and recycled his mug in the replicator.

"Guess you'll have to keep supplying me to stay in my good graces." She stayed seated, eyes returning to her reading.

"You know I would, but I don't think I can get away with anymore bathtubs. The bridge would look a little silly with one there." A croissant shell connected with his head as he bent to pick up his work from the table. He failed to acknowledge it, instead walking around the table. He planted a quick kiss on her forehead, just above the hairline, before walking past her to do the door.

The action took her completely by surprise and she'd almost fallen out of her chair.

"You're still my favorite Admiral. Even if you're cranky and throw pastry guts at me," he called over his shoulder as he walked out the door. "See you on the bridge."

By the time she thought to respond, the doors had already closed behind him. She sat staring, a dumbfounded expression on her face. She didn't know what to think. He certainly hadn't crossed a line. But he was treating her with a kind of affection that he'd rarely shown her on _Voyager_, and even then he hadn't physically expressed it given their positions.

Had he really forgiven her so quickly? Were they already passed everything after only one late night chat and a thermos of coffee? She found it hard to believe.

The silence that had grown between them the last two and half years had been planted even before they left _Voyager_. After the Monean incident and then the wedding, she didn't know how to treat him. An uncomfortable distance had developed, though neither seemed mad at the other. She still checked in on him, and when B'Elanna became pregnant she'd been so happy for them both. But he no longer pestered her to play pool with him, and she felt uncomfortable intruding on their growing family. Only once had they acknowledged the precarious status of their relationship, opening up to one another again.

It was after B'Elanna had tried to resequence their baby's genomes so that she would look less Klingon. She and Tom seemed to retreat into themselves, into their life. It hadn't been long before the unexpected return to the Alpha Quadrant.

. . . . .

It'd been a rough few days. They were low on supplies (weren't they always?), and they'd just completed a disappointing round of trade negotiations with the latest species they encountered. She was exhausted, but couldn't sleep. Feeling restless in her quarters, she'd gone to the mess hall and was sitting on a couch, starring at the passing stars. She hadn't even heard the mess hall doors open or Tom come in. She just suddenly noticed him standing behind her and almost jumped out of her skin. She hadn't had time to hide the emotions on her face; the disappointment, the worry; the loneliness and regret.

To his credit, he'd managed not to look concerned. If he had, she would have immediately pulled back into herself. She would have made polite small talk and then left. Instead, he stood looking at her pleasantly, as though he'd just run into her in the turbolift on the way to the bridge. Or anywhere else that wasn't the mess hall in the middle of the night.

"Hungry, captain?" he asked. He wasn't asking if she came here for a snack, thus giving her an out. He wasn't asking her if she was okay either. His approach was more finessed.

"Not really, Lieutenant. I'm fine with coffee." He nodded, moving to the replicator on the wall to the right of them. He manually keyed in something, and then returned to the couch with a massive bowl of ice cream. There were two spoons; one that he was holding and another that was resting on the side of the bowl, half stuck into the ice cream. He sat down next to her. Not close enough to be touching her, but close enough to invade her space.

She wondered if he'd learned that from her, as it was something she knew she did often. He didn't look at her, and didn't offer her the other spoon. Instead, he slowly began to eat the ice cream, staring straight ahead. After a few minutes, he began to talk softly.

"I don't think any relationships are easy, romantic or otherwise." She peeled her eyes away from the stars and looked at him. " I think you have to work at them. I think it takes sacrifice and compromise. I think you have to bend. And I think, in most situations, one person does more bending than the other."

She wasn't sure where this was going, but she didn't stop him. His face was honest and open, and he spoke with a seriousness that he rarely let anyone see.

"I'm not saying that's a bad thing," he said shaking his head, and putting his spoon down on the side of the bowl. "I think it's normal. I think, in most relationships, one person is willing or able to give a little bit more. And that's okay. Neither trust or love are balance sheets. And though it's possible for a person to bend too much or too little, for the whole thing to collapse in on itself, equality isn't the ultimate goal of relationships."

His words were eloquent but sincere, and she began to stare at him. She suddenly wished that it was Tom rather than the Doctor who was teaching Seven about people. She also began to worry about where this was heading. Was he trying to tell her that she gave too little? Was he implying that their friendship had collapsed in on itself because of her? She said nothing, willing him to continue.

"Life with a Klingon isn't easy," he said, picking up his spoon again. She looked surprised but he didn't acknowledge it. They'd spoken of many things over the years, but he never spoke this openly about his relationship with B'Elanna.

"Don't get me wrong, it's rewarding and it works. But easy it is not." He paused as he filled his mouth with ice cream. "I do a lot of the bending. But that's okay. Because I'm willing and able." He slid spoon around the side of the bowl, gathering the ice cream that had already begun to melt."But it isn't as though I'm the one to bend in all of my relationships." He looked at her for the first time since he'd sat down and she tried not to fidget nervously. "Take Harry, for example," he motioned with his empty spoon, "I can't remember the last time we did something together that wasn't what I wanted to do." She smiled slightly at this. "But Harry never minds though. He's just happy to spend time with his best friend."

He'd seemed to have forgotten the ice cream entirely, instead using his spoon to punctuate his words.

"And in a different way, I think Chakotay does more of the bending in our friendship, too." Tom and Chakotay had finally begun to understand each other toward the end of their journey. It had helped that Tom married one of Chakotay's best friends. "My humor is sarcastic and dark, and everything that Chakotay isn't." He smiled, but not at her. It was a smile that she knew was about Chakotay and his sometimes annoying ability to remain compassionate and steady through anything. "But he tolerates it, sometimes even pretends to enjoy it. And does so without complaint."

Here, Tom stopped talking, suddenly remembering his ice cream. The silence was companionable. Eventually, she picked up the second spoon, carefully gathering the ice cream before carefully moving it to her mouth. She realized that the ice cream was coffee flavored, and gently shook her head, her lips turning up at the corners.

"This week was awful." She hadn't meant to say it, exactly. She'd been thinking it all night, but now, between bites of ice cream, it just slipped out of her mouth like it had been pried loose by the spoon.

"I think that's the understatement of the year." He responded to her admission like it wasn't out of the ordinary; like they always stayed up late, eating ice cream out of the same bowl, as they confided in each other.

"We didn't get anything we really needed out of those damn trade talks." Her jaw was set in frustration.

"I don't think what the Plemian First Minister was after was on the menu." He scrunched his face in disapproval, but didn't look up to gauge her reaction. Instead, he regarded the ice cream that they were both finishing at a respectable rate. She considered reining him in here. The comment was clearly inappropriate. But what was the point? He was right, after all. The Minister had made his intentions known, and when his advances toward her had been rejected, he'd made negotiations nearly impossible on her. She shook her head in open frustration. And then she sighed heavily.

"You know, I considered comming Voyager and asking you to beam down to the negotiations." Her tone was serious, but something in her eyes told him he was being set up.

"Oh?" he said, looking at her with one eyebrow raised.

"Mm-hm," she mumbled, spooning more ice cream into her mouth, deliberately making him wait for her response.

"I'm not exactly an expert in diplomacy." He was baiting her, willing her to take the opening.

"True," she replied. "But I was relatively certain that if the Minister went far enough past the line, you would punch him in the nose. . . Or the gills, as it were." He looked at her in surprise. Eventually, both of their shoulders began to heave in silent laughter.

It wasn't lost on her that their whole conversation had been absurd. It didn't have a beginning, a middle, or and end. It was full of inappropriate statements. And now it was punctuated by the irony that she was joking about having him assault an alien dignitary after he'd just gotten his rank back for disregarding protocol and the chain of command. Neither of them seemed to care. When the ice cream was almost gone, she knew that the spell was about to end and she plucked up some courage.

"Tom?" she said, getting his attention. He didn't respond, just looked at her expectantly. "In our relationship. . . which of us bends more? Disregarding rank and the command structure, I mean." She'd managed to keep her voice even as she asked the question, but there was something in her eyes that very much resembled vulnerability. He didn't seem at all phased, but he considered his answer, staring intently at the bottom of the bowl as if the appropriate response were etched there.

"Everything considered. . ." he began, raising his eyes to meet hers. She felt irrationally nervous."I think you and I are one of the rare instances of two people meeting each other about halfway. We both bend, we both require bending, but ultimately neither one takes any more than we give." This wasn't she'd expected him to say, and it must have shown on her face. He smiled at her. Not his normal toothy grin, but a soft smile of understanding and affection. They'd finished the last of the ice cream in silence before each returning to their quarters.

The next week, she decided on a lark to stop by his quarters and invite him to play a game of pool. But Tom wasn't home, and B'Elanna had answered the door. Janeway hadn't even thought to ask the computer if he was in his quarters, and for some reason she was caught off guard by being greeted by her Chief Engineer. The younger woman had seemed surprised and, though polite, a little unhappy to find her captain outside of her door.

Janeway didn't drop by again, and though she could have just verbally invited Tom do something, she never did.

. . . . .

Now, sitting at the dining room table in her guest quarters, she considered Tom's actions minutes earlier. It wasn't all that more intimate than sharing a bowl of ice cream on a couch. Perhaps even less so given their respective positions at the time of that conversation three years ago. But she felt completely unprepared for it now. If she was honest with herself, she'd admit that she came to the _Nighthawk_ with the chief objective of righting things with her former helmsman. She wanted Tom as a friend. But as much as she regretted the last two years, she wasn't entirely sure she was ready for the demands of friendship. Other than Chakotay, most of her friendships were work-based and came with clearly drawn lines. She had become unaccustomed to bending, and she knew it.

She closed her eyes and silently wondered what she'd gotten herself into.

She didn't have time to dwell long. Warning sirens began to drone, and the computer informed her without emotion that the ship was now on red alert. She felt the _Nighthawk_ accelerate to high warp, and she scrambled to put on her shoes and grab her jacket. Jogging to the turbolift, it didn't dawn on her that this was not her ship and, as such, she wasn't required to rush to the bridge. She called her destination in a hurried voice, and waited impatiently as the turbolift sped to its destination. Beneath her concern brimmed something else. It was excitement. She had missed this.


	5. Flammable things

Chapter 5: Flammable things

As the lift doors opened, she heard Harry's voice announcing coordinates. Her mouth opened to say "report", but as her eyes locked onto Tom in the captain's seat, it flooded back to her that this was not her ship. As she took the seat to the right of Commander Paris, Admiral Picard and Captain Riker joined them on the bridge. Tom locked eyes with her, but then nodded to the other officers that were joining them. It was a sign that he would fill them in, but would do so all at once.

There were only two command seats on the _Nighthawk_, but only one was currently occupied, as Lieutenant Commander Rix was serving as interim first officer as well as chief tactical officer. And as Janeway had already claimed the open seat, this left the ranking male officers to stand, awkwardly, to the side of Tom. Even with the red alert, Tom noticed it and felt a small pain of sympathy for them. Both men were used to the captain's chair, and it was a tough feeling to give up. But he had to give them credit; they were hiding it well.

"What's our status?" Riker asked, looking at Paris.

"We received a distress call from the _Pioneer_. It indicated that the ship was being attacked, but the signal ended before we could gain anymore information. Now the _Pioneer_ isn't responding to hails." Paris' face was focused. He was obviously concerned, but didn't appear nervous.

"The _Pioneer_ is as science ship with limited weapons," Admiral Picard said in a low voice, shaking his head.

"It's also a ship half the size of this one. They won't last long if they're coming up against any serious fire," Riker added.

"Time to intercept?" Janeway asked, though to Lieutenant Kim instead of Paris. The Commander chose to ignore the lapse, staring at the screen beside him.

"22 minutes. And we're the nearest Starfleet vessel by almost two hours at maximum warp," Kim replied, looking from Janeway to Paris and back again.

"How long until we can tell what they're up against, Lieutenant?" Paris shifted in his chair.

"Two more minutes at our current speed" Kim replied, his eyes locked on his Commander.

"Let's kick it into high gear, Ensign Riggs. Go to warp nine point two."

The dark-haired ensign acknowledged the command, and the ship accelerated. At their current speed, most vessels would begin to begin to strain. The speed was maintainable, of course, but anyone aboard it would feel the acceleration, a dull shaking that would be enough to jostle a coffee cup from a table. The _Nighthawk_, however, stayed steady, gracefully slipping though space as though at a comfortable warp six. Though distracted by the current crisis, Janeway made mental notes of this for the report that she would later have to send to Starfleet Command.

"Now in sensor range, Commander," Rix announced after another minute. "There are three ships of unknown origin converging on the _Pioneer_. Their ship configuration is not one that is currently known, but their energy signatures appear to be Cardassian."

"Any clues as to whether we're actually dealing with the Cardassians rather than someone who's obtained Cardassian warp technology?" Paris knew the black market for technology had been ever expanding after the war, and the Cardassians, among others, were selling as much as they bought.

"Not yet. But the ships appear to have significant armaments, Commander." At this, almost everyone on the bridge tensed slightly. Paris and Janeway shared a reassuring look. They'd been through much worse, and without the hope of Starfleet backup.

"Noted. Do we know how the _Pioneer_ is holding up? Do they still have shields?"

"Impossible to ascertain with certainty from this distance. But the _Pioneer_ appears to have maneuvered into a nearby protoplanetary nebula, which would indicate they still have shields and basic propulsion." Harry's voice seemed hopeful.

"They'll be able to manipulate the radiation around them to throw off sensors, at least at close range," Janeway said, cocking her head to the side and looking at Tom again. "It will also require the ships to modify their weapons if they don't want to blow themselves up along with the _Pioneer_."

"True, but it won't buy them long. Maybe forty minutes. An hour tops." Paris' eyes were locked on the data screen between their chairs. He fought the urge to ask again how long until they would intercept. Instead he said, "Mr. Riggs, drop out of our current speed when we're one minute out. That isn't going to give you a lot of time to maneuver, but I trust you can handle it."

The young ensign didn't seem at all sure he agreed with this assessment, but managed to respond "Eye, sir" in a steady voice.

When the _Nighthawk_ finally dropped out of warp, Commander Paris signaled Lieutenant Kim to open hailing frequency. "This is Commander Paris of the Federation starship _Nighthawk_. Your attack on the _Pioneer_ is considered an act of aggression. If you do not withdraw, we will be forced to engage."

"No response on hail, sir, but all three ships are coming about." Riggs announced.

"On screen." Before them appeared the image of three ships, smaller than the _Nighthawk_, but formidable enough. Paris shook his head. "The war ended, but it's like no one is interested in diplomacy. It's starting to feel like the Delta Quadrant's rules of thumb are now being used in the Alpha quadrant." They were out-numbered and possibly out-gunned, and the closest Starfleet vessel was almost two hours away. Nothing about this was funny. Still, Janeway fought the urge to smirk. Tom was right. No one wanted to talk anymore. It was like dealing with the Kazon all over again.

"The largest ship is powering it's weapons, Commander." Rix announced in an even voice.

"Evasive maneuvers Paris 7, Mr. Riggs. As soon as we're close enough, take out the lead ship's weapons. Maybe they'll talk when they have no choice." The _Nighthawk_ momentarily shook with phaser fire before slipping quickly below the lead ship's aft.

"Full torpedo spread, Rix. . . Now." The view screen was momentarily alight with the red glow before the _Nighthawk_ shuddered.

"Minimal impact on the enemy ship, Commander." Concern was beginning to creep into Rix's characteristically steady voice. "They're returning fire." The _Nighthawk_ keened, and warnings rapidly beeped from Rix and Kim's consoles.

"Shields at eighty percent, sir." The sound of Harry's warning began to bring back bad memories for Admiral Janeway, and she tried not to clutch the side of her chair. Ensign Riggs tried to maintain evasive maneuvers but his movements couldn't keep them out of enemy fire. Though the _Nighthawk_ returned fire, their weapons appeared to have no effect on the enemy ships.

"Shields at sixty-five percent."

"Let's hope their sensors aren't as advanced as their shields. Move us into the nebula, Mr. Riggs. Evasive maneuvers Delta Tango." The ship shook again, this time hard, and Admiral Picard had to grab onto the Commander's chair to avoid falling on him. Janeway and Riker both exchanged glances. By now the alien ships had surely adjusted their sensors to compensate for the radiation in the nebula. Once they adjusted their weapons, the _Nighthawk_, like the _Pioneer_, would be a sitting duck. "Mr. Kim, I want communications established with _Pioneer_. And now."

"Yes, sir."

"Paris to engineering."

"Sir?" The din of warning claxons and repair teams could be heard in the background of O'Donnell's voice.

"In less than twenty minutes I'm going to be venting plasma from the nessels. You should do whatever you need to do now to prepare to go high warp afterward."

"Understood. O'Donnell out." Again, Riker and Janeway looked at each other. Venting plasma from the nessels would ionize the radiation in the nebula at an intense rate. A moderate power fluctuation would set the whole thing off.

"We have contact with the _Pioneer_, Commander. It's audio only."

Paris nodded, looking ahead at the view screen. The fragmented light of the nebula spread before them in an array of red and yellow hues. "This is Commander Paris of the _Nighthawk_ to the _Pioneer_. Do you read?"

"This is Captain Beecham of the _Pioneer_." The Captain's words were difficult to make out, the sound of her voice almost eclipsed by static and the far away sound of warning claxons. "Good to have your company, Commander, but I'm afraid the friends we've found don't seem to play well with others."

"It appears you're right." Paris allowed himself a wry grin. The ships out there had them corned in a nebula, and she was comparing to them to ill-mannered grade schoolers. All while they were likely listening. He instinctively liked her. "Tell me, Captain, where did you grow up?" The bridge of the _Nighthawk_ grew awkwardly quiet. They didn't have any idea what their Commander was doing, but they trusted him. Janeway, Riker, and Picard fought various degrees of doubt.

So did the Captain of the _Pioneer_, it seemed. "Canton. . . Ohio," she said slowly, confusion in her voice.

"You must miss the winters." Paris' voice was light, casual. He sounded like they were getting to know each other over friendly drinks at his favorite bar. Janeway thought that his wherewithal reminded her of his father. Kim thought it reminded him of Janeway.

Beecham snorted, or so it sounded through the poor audio line. "You mean, having to activate the environmental controls just to dig ourselves out of the house? Yeah, it was great."

"Tell me, before the snow hit, did you ever hang up those little plasma lights? The ones people would string up inside around the ancient winter holidays? The glow of nebulas has always reminded me of them. . ."

"You mean those tacky colorful ones? No. . . my parents thought they were heinous. And there was no 'before the snow' in Canton." Tom's face fell a bit and Janeway could see he was beginning to reconsider something. "I had an aunt in New Mexico who used to hang them though. We went to visit her every December." Tom's eyes shown.

"Did you ever take them down and tinker with them?"

"Officially. . . It was my younger brother who did that." Tom let himself laugh. He'd grown up with two older sisters who always blamed their misdeeds on him. It was easy to get away with given the misdeeds he actually committed. "But unofficially, I tore those things down every chance I got and played with them."

"Did you ever get them near a flame?" He asked, his voice losing the casual tone he'd previously spoken in.

"Only once. . . I never made that mistake again." Her voice was filled with seriousness now. She'd understood him. He closed his eyes and nodded.

"Well, you never made it once. . . It was your brother, after all." The line filled with static and the Commander looked to Harry, willing him to get it back. "Still there, Captain?"

"Barely."

"Understood. . . What speed are you capable of?" There was a silence. Any answer she gave was going to be heard by more than Paris.

"Well, it was our shields and weapons that took most of the damage. You're asking a Captain for an estimate. . ." There was another pause. "I think, by my Captain's estimate, we can cobble together warp 6." He understood, nodding.

"Got it, Captain. I guess at that speed we won't be able to out-run our playmates. I'll signal you when we've come up with a way out of here. Look for my hail."

"Understood, Commander."

Once the comm line was closed, Paris looked behind him to Mr. Kim. "Harry, how long of a lead time would a ship need to out run the shockwave of an ionized blast if it was only capable of warp 2?"

Kim's forehead knit together as he poured over the calculations. "28.2 seconds, sir. If it jumped to warp two and held it."

"And how long would a ship need if it was capable of maximum warp?"

"1.4 seconds."

Picard looked at Paris and shook his head with a knowing half-grin. "Why is it, Commander, that I feel like we're about to be playing with plasma lights?" Paris shook his head, and pursed his lips.

"It looks that way, Admiral. But then I was never the kid you should leave home alone with flammable objects." Riker couldn't believe what they were saying, but Janeway regarded Paris confidently.

"It looks like we're going to need a distraction if we're going give the _Pioneer_ a 27-second head start," Janeway commented, her brow furrowed as it often did when she was considering a problem.

"I'd like to give them at least 30 seconds. Who knows if they'll be able to maintain warp 2 or how their shields will hold up even then." Paris' forehead also scrunched.

"Sir," came Ensign Rigg's tentative voice from the Conn. He turned around in his seat to face his commander. "Why warp 2? Captain Beecham said the _Pioneer_ was capable of warp 6. . ." Other members of the bridge staff looked expectantly at Paris; they were wondering the same thing.

Paris looked serious, as if giving this answer was the most important thing he'd been asked to deal with all day. "There's an old saying in Starfleet, Ensign. If you ask a Captain for an estimate, you should be prepared to. . ."

"divide the answer by 3." Riker and Rix chimed in with the Commander. From behind him, Tom heard Harry snort. He didn't have to look behind him to know that the younger man was shaking his head. Janeway smiled, despite everything.

"Commander," Rix said from tactical, "I think I have an idea to buy the _Pioneer_ some time." Paris nodded for her to continue. "I think I can use the radiation from the nebula to create a sensor echo of the _Pioneer_. It may not work for long, but our friends out there will be able to detect that the _Pioneer_ jumped to warp while simultaneously reading them as still holding position in the nebula. They'll have to sort through the interference to realize the reading in the nebula is an echo."

Paris stood up, looking from Rix to Harry. "Lieutenant Kim, how long do you think it would take you to sort out that kind of echo if you weren't expecting it?"

"Given the radiation, the distraction of having multiple targets to monitor. . . " Harry shrugged. "At least 35 seconds. Maybe more."

Paris looked at Rix again. "Well, I'm willing to bet everything I've got that whoever those ships have over there isn't as good as Mr. Kim." Paris spun around to sit down, but not before he saw Harry's face flush with embarrassment, his eyes fill with pride. Janeway watched silently, but gave Harry a slight nod of the head to indicate her agreement.

"Let's get this done."

Five minutes later, they were ready. "_Nighthawk_ to _Pioneer_."

"_Pioneer_ here, Commander."

"We're going to engage again, Captain. Are you able to join us?"

"Of course, Commander. Wouldn't want you to be alone in the sandbox. At least, not today." Paris grinned despite himself. "We're ready when you are."

"We need a few minutes to reinforce our shields," he lied, "but after that we're going to let you take the lead on this one."

"Understood. _Pioneer_ out."

"Mr. Riggs, maneuver us to the edge of the nebula." Before the ensign had the chance to comply, the three alien ships began to approach the perimeter.

"So our friends were listening after all," Riker murmured, looking down at Paris.

"Eaves dropping is such a nasty habit," Paris remarked, looking down at his date screen once more. "Begin venting the nessels."

Once both the _Pioneer_ and the _Nighthawk_ reached the edge of the nebula, Paris looked to Rix. "You ready with that echo?"

"I've programmed the computer to automatically initiate it when the _Pioneer_ goes to warp."

"Mr. Riggs, prepare to go to maximum warp exactly thirty seconds after the _Pioneer_ engages its engines." The young man nodded.

Moments later, the _Pioneer_ was gone. "Status of the enemy ships?"

"Staying put," Kim said, in something approaching a victorious tone.

"Good. Rix, arm one photon torpedo. Program to detonate exactly two seconds after launch. On my mark. . ." The room tensed, Picard and Riker braced themselves against the console that partitioned the command deck from Ops and Tactical. Janeway looked focused, but her eyes were locked on Paris. Paris looked at the display in front of him. "Mark!"

At the precise moment that Rix fired the torpedo, the _Nighthawk_ went to warp. Within moments, the ship shuddered with the force of the shockwave they'd created. Sparks flew as consoles across the bridge shorted. Kim swore as one of them singed his hand. The bridge was soon filled with smoke.

"Hold her steady, Mr. Riggs." The ship began to shake violently, just as the Conn console gave Ensign Riggs a nasty blast. The young man fell backward to the ground. Paris sprang from his seat on the command deck, somehow making it to the pilot's seat without tripping over his officer or losing his balance. In the mere seconds the _Nighthawk_ had been without a pilot, it had entered a dangerous spin, keening out of control.

Riker and Picard fell to the ground while the rest of the bridge crew clung to their stations. Janeway's eyes stayed on the Commander as she clung with both hands to her chair. Paris's hands flew over the console, entering corrections at a faster rate than Janeway had even witnessed on Voyager. Moments later, the ship stopped shaking as Paris dropped them to half impulse.

"Harry," Paris said standing from his seat at the Conn and coming to kneel beside his fallen pilot, "any sign of the _Pioneer_?" Janeway got up and kneeled beside him. She was no medic, but if Paris could doctor at the same time that he captained his ship, she was damned if she would sit idle in a chair.

"Scanning, sir."

"He's seriously concussed, but his life signs are stable," Paris said, more to himself than to Janeway, before calling for a medical beam out.

"I've got them, sir." Harry's voice no longer just approached triumphant. "They're a few light years from us. They must have dropped out of warp after we did."

"Hail them," Paris said getting up from the knee he was kneeling on, and extending a hand to Janeway.

"_Pioneer_ here," Beecham's voice sounded relieved, "glad to see you made it through."

"We did. A few bumps and bruises, but we'll be okay. Do you require assistance?" Paris was sitting back at the Conn, but angled himself so that he could see his officers.

"Yes, but I think we can manage until the Ulysses gets here. They're an hour out now."

"We'll hang around just in case. As for our friends. . ." Paris looked to Kim and Kim shook his head, "it looks like they won't be bullying anyone else anytime soon. But when you have the hands, I'd appreciate it if you could send us any sensor data you collected on them. It would be nice to figure who exactly we were dealing with."

"Understood, Commander. And thanks again. _Pioneer_ out."

The comm line cut out and Admiral Picard looked to Paris. "We should start looking over own data as soon as we can. Something tells me those ships weren't just an isolated incident. Their shields far surpassed anything Starfleet has put out."

Paris nodded. "In the meantime," he glanced at the Conn console, "it looks at though I'm in need of a pilot." His eyes fell on Riker, who was currently engaged with dusting himself off.

It took Riker a moment to realize what was going on. "You're kidding. . ." The Captain finally said, looking at his friend as though he'd just asked him to scrub the hull with his toothbrush.

"You have level two pilot certification." Tom offered, dutifully. Too dutifully. Riker's eyes fell on Picard. In his day, Picard had been a skilled pilot. He even had maneuvers named after him. "I'm sure the admirals need to contact Starfleet command. And I. . ."

"Have a ship to run," Riker finished, sighing. "Fine. But I'm tempted to run us into the middle of an asteroid field just for spite."

Tom smiled gently. "At least it means you get to sit down." Riker snorted.

"Would you mind if I made use of your ready room, Commander?" Picard asked, smiling slightly as he watched as his former first officer slumped into the pilot's chair.

"Of course, sir. I believe you know the way."

"I'll join you," Janeway said, getting up from her seat, but Picard held up his hand. "That won't be necessary." She stopped, looking at him. "But of course, if you'd like to use the ready room before I do. . ."

Janeway was puzzled, but tried to hide it. "No, it's fine. . . I'll wait." Picard hadn't ordered her to stay. He couldn't really, as they both held the same level of seniority in the admiralty. Still, it was more a command than a question, and she wasn't sure how to take it. Picard nodded, and headed past them into Tom's ready room. Janeway looked to Paris, but he seemed busy looking around his bridge.

"Well. . . Now that the excitement's over. . . And my ship is being piloted by someone other than me. . . I'm going to head down to the engine room to see what kind of damage we're looking at."

"I'll come with you," Janeway said. It was more a statement than an offer, but Paris understood. She couldn't join Picard and didn't want to sit uselessly on the bridge.

"I'm leaving the bridge to you, Rix." The first officer nodded. From the Conn they heard something closely resembling an exasperated breath. Rix tried not to smile, as did Paris and Janeway. They got on the turbolift. "Engineering." Alone in the lift with Janeway, he allowed his shoulders to slump a little.

"That was odd. . . With Jean-Luc." Perhaps she shouldn't have said it, but she was voicing what she was sure he was already thinking.

He tensed for a moment. "He probably just had to check in with Starfleet about. . . me." He looked at her, and she raised an eyebrow. "Do you think it hasn't occurred to me that he's here to observe and report on the _Nighthawk_'s interim commanding officer?" He raised an eyebrow at her in return. "Besides, it's not as though they could ask you to report on me."

She chuckled. "I wasn't sure if the possibility was one you were aware of. . . It occurred to me yesterday, but then you seemed so calm around him that I thought maybe it hadn't dawned on you. . . You've had your hands rather full."

Tom shrugged. "Admiral Picard is a good man and a good judge of people, I think. And even if he weren't," he paused, standing up straight again, " I refuse to put on a show for anymore." She looked at him admiringly and nudged his arm with her shoulder. The lift doors opened and they walked into the organized chaos that was engineering. The Chief was only a few feet from them, talking with some of his staff. He promptly dismissed them and approached Paris and Janeway.

"How bad is it, old man?" Tom's use of the nickname prompted O'Donnell to drop formalities.

"Well, because of that little stunt, half our relays are friend, the warp matrix looks like it came from a thirty-year old cargo ship. And the problem in the manifold that I'd finally fixed about three hours ago is now back. . . And worse than it was before." O'Donnell was giving Tom a look that Janeway knew very well. It was a chief engineer's way of silently asking what the hell you'd done to their ship. She realized now that it was intimidating even when it didn't come from a half-Klingon with an anger management problem.

O'Donnell starred at them, asking with his posture what they had to say for themselves. She and Tom both instinctively froze, blinking slowly but saying nothing.

Paris broke first. "Well. . . Did I mention that I'm cooking lasagna tonight?"


	6. Mutinies and confessions

Chapter 6: Mutinies and confessions

Dinner that evening was a working one, though in some ways more informal than the one the previous evening. Paris was concerned about his ship; the events of the day had set them back tremendously. He read reports as he pieced together the layers of lasagna he was baking, then settled at the table with a PADD and plate of fresh vegetables and nuts. The conversation was subdued but comfortable.

The three ranking officers, especially Janeway, had helped out as much they could and were now trying to fight off fatigue. Janeway and Paris had spent two hours together helping out in engineering. Until the circuit they were working on had given Paris a nasty shock and knocked him to the floor. He'd declined to go to Sickbay and neither the Chief nor Janeway pressed. Still, it was clear Tom had enough of mucking about with power relays, and returned, singed and dirty, to the bridge. When Janeway returned to the bridge herself, showered and laundered, Tom was gone. Rix informed her with a small look of concern that he had gone to check in on the injured crew in Sickbay.

"I don't suppose he let Doctor Norel look at him while he was there, did he?" Kim asked in a low voice, studiously looking at his console. Janeway was sure he wasn't even reading it. Rix schooled her features and shook her head gently to indicate a negative. Kim let out a low breath that no one but Rix and Janeway heard, and the conversation ended.

She wondered how many conversations of this kind went on about her own health on Voyager. She felt a twinge of guilt, and had the urge to call Chakotay when she had the time.

After that, she'd spent the rest of the day catching up on work in Tom's empty ready room, as well as helping Chief O'Donnell through the computer interface.

Now, sitting in the formal dining room, the four officers chatted quietly, in between bites of salad and sips of coffee or tea. Rix, and then Kim, joined them, both sitting across from Paris. Tom greeted Harry with a large smile, and Janeway winked at the young man when no one was else was looking.

After a few minutes, Paris asked, "I don't suppose the Chief is coming?"

"What's the expression you used to use? Something about having to pry someone away from something with a 'crowbar'?" Harry asked, leaning back in his chair. Paris laughed and put down his work. "Sometimes I'm glad his wife isn't here. She'd kill him for working so much, and possibly kill me, too, for driving him insane with repairs."

At the mention of their absent loved ones, Harry's face fell a bit. Tom didn't say anything but gave his friend a warm pat on the back as he stood up to check on the lasagna. He brought the platter to the table and everyone perked up a bit at the smell of food. Even Janeway.

"You know, Tom, if you keep cooking for us, we may never leave," Picard said, looking at Riker and then Janeway.

"That's perfectly fine with me, Admiral. Although I'd have to have another chair installed on the bridge." Tom filled his plate, as well as his officers'. "And I'd have to ask Ensign Riggs to add Will to the Conn schedule." Riker didn't respond, his mouth full of food. But he narrowed his eyes as if considering a nasty reply.

Rix let out a contented sigh, and then looked over the mountain of food on her plate to Paris.

"With all the repair work, should we suspend the regularly scheduled drills for the next few days?" Harry looked hopeful but remained silent. Janeway and Picard held back grins. They were both surprised to learn that Paris had the crew on a nightmare schedule of training drills and physical fitness tests. There were advanced flight simulations for the pilots, tactical training exercises for Rix and Kim's staffs, mock emergencies for the engineers, and calisthenics regiments for everyone.

In the back of her mind, Janeway decided she felt the most sympathy for the pilots. She had no doubt Tom had designed the simulations himself and would supervise every one of them.

"No," Paris said, scooping sauce up with a piece of bread, "The drills are important. I don't want the crew getting used to the same set of problems. It doesn't help our efficiency." He didn't come out and say it, but Janeway knew his full line of thought.

On _Voyager_, they had everything thrown at them and then some. By the end of the second year, they knew every inch of the ship by memory, and could spout off seven different problems that could occur in that one inch. The learning curve had been constant, and it had kept them alive. Rix nodded, scooping another piece of lasagna onto her plate. Kim looked a bit crest fallen, and popped a cherry tomato into his mouth.

"Save room," Tom said, more to his officers than to anyone else, "I made dessert." Tom picked up his own dirty plate, along with Picard and Janeway's, and recycled them before disappearing into the galley.

"Not a fan of tactical training, Harry?" Janeway asked the question in a low voice and with an innocent smile. But Kim knew his former Captain well enough to know that she was taking joy in his pain. He would have been horrified by the thought once upon a time, but now he just shook his head the way he used to when Tom had made funny of him for going after the wrong Delaney twin.

"Tactical training is just fine ma'am. . . It's the physical fitness training that I'm less than fond of." Janeway looked at him mischievously, waiting for him to go on. "The training is organized competitively; each shift is a team and our average times, etc., determine the winner." Rix looked from Kim to Janeway and tried not smile. The First Officer, like her CO, enjoyed this kind of competition. It was icing on the cake that it made poor Harry miserable.

"I don't suppose there's any kind of prize for having the best average?" Riker looked at Rix, a knowing smirk on his face. Janeway realized he must know Tom well. He was asking if there was a bet at some kind.

"Of course not, Captain," Rix replied, nonchalantly, "just pride." None of the ranking officers believed her for a second, not even Picard.

Just as Tom returned with something that resembled cheesecake, Doctor Norel joined them. Tom stopped in his tracks, holding the cake tantalizingly near Rix, though without meaning to.

"Everyone still doing alright down there, Doctor?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

"Yes. Crewman Davies and Ensign Riggs were the last to be released, but they're both resting in their quarters comfortably and will be on light duty rotation the next few days." Crewman Davies worked in engineering and had gotten severe burns on his hands and arms during the battle. Janeway had looked at Paris with empathy when O'Donnell had informed him. Her friend had been completely crestfallen, but hid it well. "The rest of the injured crewmen should be back on regular duty tomorrow."

The Doctor was in her early forties, and her pattern of speech was what one would expect from someone who'd grown up on Vulcan. Her mannerisms were more fluid, however, and though she did not smile with her face, her eyes were remarkably expressive. Janeway had spent less time with Norel than with the rest of the senior staff, but it was clear she and Tom had a good working relationship, even if it was one markedly less familiar than the ones he enjoyed with the officers sitting at the table.

"Good," Paris let out a sigh, and sat down, placing the cake in the middle of the table. "Would you like to join us for some dessert? It's cheesecake with Katarian tistle berries."

"No, thank you. However, I would like to make an official request."

"Shoot," he said, beginning to pass out the cheesecake, starting with Janeway.

"Chief O'Donnell, sir." Paris dropped the serving spatula he was holding and scratched his head. He knew exactly where this was going.

"How long has he been on duty?"

"According to the ship's logs, Chief O'Donnell has been on duty for sixteen hours." Paris shook his head, knowing that the ship's logs were probably a low-ball answer. O'Donnell was surprisingly sneaky about logging his work hours.

The Commander hit his comm badge.

"Paris to O'Donnell."

"O'Donnell here, sir." The chief's reply came after a moment, and it was obvious he was trying to muffle some kind of background noise.

"You better not still be tinkering with that manifold, old man. I need you fed and well-rested." Tom's voice was commanding, but light at the same time.

"Of course, sir. I was just on my way to catch a bite with Ensign Richards before heading home."

Ensign Richards was on Beta shift this week and he would be on duty for another four hours. Rix looked to Paris, and Paris' eyes narrowed.

"That's good to hear, Chief. Because I'm going to ask the computer for your location in five minutes, and if it says engineering, or any proximity there of, I'm busting you all the way down to Crewman." The lightness in his face and voice were now gone, a commanding officer through and through.

"Understood sir. . . O'Donnell out."

"What is it about Chief Engineers?" Picard asked smiling, once the comm line was closed. Riker, Kim, and Janeway all looked at Paris, though Janeway with more subtlety than the others.

The Commander's countenance clouded, though only for a moment, and he responded, in a seemingly cheerful tone, "I have no idea." Paris then looked up at Doctor Norel. "That should take care of it, Doctor. At least for a few days." He resumed passing out dessert, handing slices to Picard and then to Riker. "Is there anything else?"

"No, sir." With that the Doctor turned to leave.

The Commander stopped, again putting down the spatula, and sat up straight.

"Doctor?" It was his command voice.

Rix and Kim both sighed. The latter because he was afraid of what was coming, and the former because she thought she was never going to get any cheesecake at this rate. Janeway regarded them both curiously before turning her eyes to Paris. The Doctor turned around, though reluctantly. Reluctance was such a strange behavior to see in a Vulcan. Paris held out his left hand, his palm flat.

"Doctor," he said again, this time in a voice that made Harry cringe. Picard and Riker shared a confused. The doctor took three steps closer to the Commander before removing the small medical scanner from her pocket and placing it in Paris' palm. Paris looked at the small, cylindrical device with an air of neutrality before handing it back to Norel. Kim fidgeted. Rix starred straight ahead as though she were looking past all of them. Norel regarded the Commander with a calmness that only a Vulcan was capable of.

"Care to tell all of us what you found?" Paris said, picking up his fork. His voice was matter of fact, but there was darkness in his face that left no question as to his humor. It reminded Kim of Janeway when she was in a bad mood. The Lieutenant felt a slight wave of nausea wash over him.

"The Commander's vital signs are normal," the Doctor began in a stoic tone, "heart rate, blood pressure within acceptable parameters, no sign of illness or other bodily distress." The woman slid the device back into her pocket, but made no move to leave again. She knew the Commander had not finished yet.

"I assume we won't have a repeat of this, Doctor?" He looked at her briefly, before regarding his cheesecake and digging his fork into the crust with a bit of extra force.

"No, sir."

"Good. Dismissed." He didn't look up at her again, and she turned around and left the dining room. Picard and Riker kept their eyes dutifully trained on their cheesecake, which they'd now begun to eat. Janeway glanced quickly at Tom, and Tom looked intently at Rix and Harry.

"Sneakiness is not something you'd expect from a Vulcan," Tom said, his fork digging into his cheesecake again. "From a Trill or a Human maybe. . . But not from a Vulcan." Rix regarded Tom serenely, and Harry looked as though he were about to puke. "I don't suppose you two put the good doctor up to that, did you?" Before Rix answered or Kim vomited, Paris shook his head and said, "Well, for you two traitors, no cheesecake. . . recycle your plates before you leave, please." His last sentence with said with some lightness. Kim seemed to take a breath.

"You're sending us to bed without dessert, I take it?" Rix wanted either to shake her head in frustration or chuckle inappropriately, but did neither.

"I think it's a generous punishment when the crime is mutiny," Tom replied with a small smile. He was angry, disappointed even, but wasn't going overboard. He would make sure to demonstrate a point here, and then move on. In silence, Harry and Rix slowly got up from their seats, recycling their plates before exiting. Rix nodded to the ranking officers. Harry looked anywhere but at the table.

When the door closed, Riker began to shake. Tom looked up at him. He had his hand half-clamped over his mouth to prevent the flow of laughter, and was bending forward slightly. The younger man realized Will must have only barely held his amusement in moments earlier, and started to laugh, too. Though more at Riker than the situation.

"Man," Riker finally said, shaking his head, "are your officers _sneaky_." Picard started to chuckle, and then, finally, Janeway joined in. "I mean. . . they co-opted a Vulcan."

Paris shook his head ruefully and Janeway looked at him, her eyes narrowing.

"I suddenly feel grateful that, despite all your sneakiness, very little of it was directed at me."

Tom's eyes flew wide, and he tried to put on a hurt expression. Turning to Riker and Picard he spoke with animation.

"That's because we were all terrified of her." Janeway laughed. "Even our first officer." It was Janeway's turn to look surprised. "Bravest man I ever had the pleasure of serving with. Fought the Federation and Cardassians, and then everything the Delta quadrant through at us. And he did so without so much as a second thought." Janeway smiled at Tom's appraisal of Chakotay, even though he was using it to lampoon her. "But tell him it was time to have the Captain report for her regular physical, and he was no where to be found." Riker whooped and Picard smiled widely as Janeway threw down her napkin in (semi-)mock protest. She wasn't that difficult, or scary. She crossed her arms, defiantly, but this posture just set Riker and Paris off again.

It was the tail end of this scene that greeted Chief O'Donnell as he entered the dining room. Paris' only greeting to the officer wth a contented smile.

"Sirs," O'Donnell said, curiosity on his face and a twinkle in his eye. Everyone nodded. "Any food left?"

"Sure," Tom said, waving slightly for O'Donnell to join them. The engineer picked up a plate and helped himself to the leftover lasagna. Tom had already put the remainder of dessert up in the galley.

"Not that I'm complaining, but is there any cheesecake left?" Tom nodded slightly in the affirmative, but gave the man a once over.

"In the galley. But I assume you ran into one of my mutinous officers if you know what's on the dessert menu."

"I may have run into Mr. Kim." O'Donnell looked at him, unflappable. "It's good you didn't feed him dessert. He looked rather ill." Tom chuckled, and the engineer went into the galley. Above the clattering of plates and movement of dishes, the Chief's voice drifted into the dining room. "About earlier, sir." More clattering. " I'm sorry. I should have gone off shift a long time ago."

Tom's face registered surprise.

"It's okay, old man. But I don't want it to happen again. The _Nighthawk_ needs you, and it won't do for you to be running yourself ragged."

There was one last clatter of plates, and Paris winced. Was that man breaking everything in there?

"I've been thinking, and you're right." The chief walked back into the dining room, sitting down with a piece of cheesecake that looked to be one-fourth of the pan. "I need to take my health more seriously."

"Yes. As, I said, you're needed."

"Yes, but it's more than that." The chief didn't look up from his plate, but occasionally gestured with his fork. "I realized that I'm setting a bad example for my staff. If they see me working myself to the bone, they'll think it's what they're supposed to do." Tom nodded with a smile, appreciating the man's sentiment. "And that's the last thing I need. A crew that's falling apart, not rested. People working triple shifts, refusing to go to Sickbay." O'Donnell glanced up at his CO after his last sentence, but then returned dutifully to his plate. The smile had fallen from Paris' face.

"Was that little speech meant to illustrate something, Chief?" Tom's voice wasn't threatening, but it wasn't joking either.

O'Donnell looked up and deadpanned, "If it was, do I still get to eat my cheesecake?"

Paris waved him on with one hand, and rubbed his face with the other. He then shook his head, a smiling playing at his lips.

"As I said," Riker chimed, looking over at Tom, "_sneaky_."

Everyone dissolved into laughter again.

. . . . .

Not long later, Paris and Janeway were slowly making their way along the corridor.

"I wasn't really that scary, was I?" she asked, turning to Tom outside his door. They'd been talking about something else entirely and the randomness of the question threw him off momentarily.

He keyed in his code, and she followed him in.

"Scary? No, not really." She sat down in same spot she'd claimed the night before. "Intimidating? Always." He went to the replicator, and she sat pondering his words. On _Voyager_, especially at the end, she'd tried to let the crew see her as a human being. All they had was each other and she wanted them to feel like they had a home, a purpose. Despite this, the demands of protocol were taxing, and she wondered if, in the end, she appeared an ultimately unyielding figure.

She realized that it would especially wound her if Tom had felt that way, and she silently decided that her question was a short-sighted one.

He handed her a cup of coffee, before joining her on the couch. He, too, took the same spot he'd occupied the previous night, but this time he already slouched back into the side cushion. His boots and jacket, discarded moments earlier, were in the dining room. It was as though, once in side his quarters, he yearned to shed the trappings and posture of his position.

He looked at her closely, knowing what she was thinking, but unsure how to best express his thoughts.

"It wasn't that we thought you were inhuman, Kathryn." He used her name easily, as though he'd been given permission. As though he'd been calling her by her first name for years. Maybe he had, in his head. "It's just that we didn't want to disappoint you." He took a drink of his coffee, but then resumed looking at her. "Even when we disagreed with you. When we wanted to fight tooth and nail with what you decided. . . We didn't want to disappoint you. We didn't want to feel as though we'd fallen out of your favor. When we felt angry with you, even if we couldn't express it, it gnawed at us. We felt guilty, torn."

She realized that he wasn't using 'we' as a vehicle for safely expressing his own feelings. He was genuinely trying to condense the sentiments of the crew into something that she could grasp. He was voicing the thoughts of the Harry, Seven. Even B'Elanna. She kicked off her boots, attempting to appear casual.

"What about you?"

"I didn't. . ." He seemed to struggle, looking away from her. He wasn't debating what to reveal to her. Here, now, he would tell her the complete truth. It was just that the truth wasn't an easy thing to understand, and he wrestled with it now, sitting only feet from her. He started over, his eyes returning to hers. "I think I always understood you, even when I didn't agree with you. I think that it made it all the more difficult when we disagreed. Because I understood you, and I wanted, desperately, for you to understand me."

The admission touched her. She reached out and grasped his hand. There was a comfortable silence, after which she started to speak.

"I did understand you. And I think even though we rarely confided in each other, I knew that you understood me, too." She didn't let go of his hand. "You know, on paper you were my most difficult officer. But in reality, you were the one that things were always effortless with." It was true. It was why she always picked Tom to go with her on away missions and pilot her shuttle. She never had to work at things with him. The conversations and silences in between were always comfortable, and he treated her like a human being even though she was his commanding officer. Of course, Chakotay treated her like a human being, too. And he was by far her closest friend on _Voyager_. But she and Chakotay were different people with different ways. If their report felt effortless, it was only because much of the work that went into their relationship he put in.

Her expression must have seemed far away because when she looked back to Tom he was staring at her with interest. Their hands were no longer clasped, but she didn't remember letting go.

"I was just thinking about Chakotay," she admitted "I should comm him tomorrow."

"Maybe," he said fidgeting, "but there will be plenty of time for you two to catch up when you get back."

She thought his response was strange, awkward. But she said nothing. Instead, she recalled her thoughts that morning, the memory of their conversation three years ago. She suddenly felt the need to confess.

"After that conversation we had in the mess on _Voyager_, I stopped by your quarters." They'd had dozens, maybe hundreds of conversations in the mess hall over meals, alone or with other officers, but he knew immediately the conversation to which she now referred. He nodded for her to go on. "You weren't home, B'Elanna answered."

"She never told me you stopped by." He told her because he didn't think it was would surprise her. It didn't.

"I don't know why I gave up after that." It was more to herself than to him, but she was consumed with the memory now.

"I don't know why either. I would have happily accepted an invitation. I just. . . felt awkward about approaching you. I thought you wanted . . . privacy. Distance." She supposed she did in some ways, but she was also relieved when those things were invaded. Seven years in the Delta quadrant had been horribly isolating.

"I felt like," she said slowly, as though piecing together a puzzle. "Like I was intruding on you and B'Elanna. You had a baby on the way."

"And you and B'Elanna didn't exactly see eye-to-eye most of the time." She was surprised by his candor, but he refused to look apologetic. If they were going to be honest, he would not beat around the bush. "I'm sure your relationship with her complicated your relationship with me."

She sighed. It was an acknowledgment. She drank her coffee, and considered her response.

"It's not that I thought she didn't like me," she said, something halfway between apology and defensiveness creeping into her tone. "I suspect she did like me, did trust me, even after everything."

"She did. She does," he confirmed simply.

"But it was always a struggle with us. And I was never quite sure where I stood." She realized that it was silly to feel awkward discussing her former engineer with him. He could confidently speak of B'Elanna- her thoughts, feelings, opinions- but she was no longer his wife. The love he once had for her was replaced with regret and, at best, restrained affection. She turned to him, grimacing. "She wasn't exactly thrilled to see me outside of your door that day, and I got the feeling she wanted me to know it."

"I'm sure she did." The lower half of his legs now dangled off the center of the couch. He looked comfortable, relaxed, despite that we were delving into the recesses of their relationship. She envied him. "She respected you as a Captain and liked you as a person. But she didn't' trust you as much as I trusted you, and didn't like you as much as I liked you. And she thought I was crazy for both."

Something about the absurd combination of his honesty and his posture made her laugh, sprawling out on the couch. Her sock-clad foot touched his, and her head was now, like his, propped up by the side of the couch. "Why does that not surprise me?"

He chuckled, softly, and stretched to put down his now empty coffee cup.

"You shouldn't be too offended. I think B'Elanna, on some level, thought it was crazy to trust anyone too much."

It was yet another admission in a long string of confessions so far, but this one stirred something deep within her. She realized that Tom was admitting something it had taken him years to come to grips with; that it was a reality he'd accepted slowly in degrees before finally seeing the whole, crushing truth after their divorce. Had they not been half lying on opposite ends of the couch, she would have taken his hand again. But as it was out of reach, she settled for staring sincerely into his eyes with an open face.

"I'm sorry your marriage ended."

He sighed. "Me, too."

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when it did."

"Me, too." His reply was simple, but poignant. Light, but heartbreaking.

"After we got back to Earth, I knew that things were falling apart."

"Chakotay?" She nodded, her movement barely visible to him in their positions.

"I worried that my being around would make it worse."

"And after?" his voice was colored with curiosity and something darker. She closed her eyes.

"I wasn't around during. It seemed too late. And then the guilt and the excuses kept piling on." She opened her eyes to find him regarding her intently. It wasn't a friendly stare, and reminded her of the look he'd directed at Doctor Norel earlier in the dining room. She didn't speak.

"If you want us to move on with that, if you want us to operate with it as some kind of stand-in for the truth, that's fine. I can accept it. But let's make clear, here, now, that that's all it is."

Her face registered surprise, anger. She'd anticipated a dozen different responses to her words, but this wasn't one of them.

"Tom."

"No," he said in a firm voice, stopping her. She sat up, putting space between them. He didn't move. "I can ignore a great deal. I can get past even more. The silence, the distance." Her eyes stung and she felt ambushed, betrayed. She felt the urge to run away. "But we won't lie to each other. Not about our friendship. Not about this."

"I'm telling you the truth." Her arms were crossed, she was using her command voice.

"Why did you ignore me for two years? Why did you refuse to acknowledge me the dozen times I contacted you?" He was still sprawled across the couch, but his face was serious, intent.

"I told you."

"You told me what you wanted me to believe, what you wanted yourself to believe. I want the truth. Or at least an admission that you don't know it or can't speak it out loud." She stared at him, her face filled with rage, but he didn't return her anger. He remained the same. "Kathryn, we can't fix this if you don't bend a little. I'm putting in everything I can. But the truth isn't something I can do without. I'll break."

He was reminding her of their conversation in the mess hall; he was begging her not to let them collapse in on themselves. Her arms dropped and she seemed to crumple. She hid her face in her hands, but didn't cry. He sat up slowly, moving next to her. He didn't hug her, but he sat with his leg flush against hers.

"Kathryn," he said again, more gently.

She looked up at him. A miserable look. One that betrayed sadness, guilt, and embarrassment all at once. Her eyes shined with moisture but she still didn't cry.

"I didn't want to lose you," she said in the smallest voice he'd ever heard her use. He didn't understand, she could see it. How was avoiding him different than losing him? He didn't press, instead placing a gentle hand on her knee, waiting for her to continue. "I didn't think we would survive re-entry." she said finally. The image he'd used so eloquently to summarize his divorce now appeared strangely before him. He was still confused, but didn't want to push her too quickly.

"You said yourself that we understood each other. That it was effortless. Why would you think our friendship would flame out once we got home?" His voice was curious but kind, and he handed her the coffee cup she'd put down moments earlier.

"Because it did with Seven, and to a different degree with Chakotay as well." She sounded defeated, and she was no longer looking at him. He sat silently, knowing he need not respond. "Within a few weeks of getting home, I went to visit Chakotay and Seven in Washington." Chakotay had bought the land and the house the second week of being back. He had loved the sky and the mountains. Seven had liked that there were few people. "It was like she and I didn't know each other, like we hadn't spent months, years talking about the nature of humanity. I kept going back, hoping it would get better, but it never did." Tom patted her knee again and thought about what she'd said.

He found it strange that she and Seven ended up that way. His relationship with Seven had gotten easier as time went on and she acclimated to her humanity. He could even make her laugh now. He wondered if their awkwardness had anything to do with the feelings Chakotay once had for his former Captain. Chakotay was the type of man to be forthright about such things in a relationship, and he imagined Seven was human enough at this point to think that neither jealousy nor old loves were irrelevant. He voiced none of this, however, as he sat comforting Kathryn.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know. But what about Chakotay? You and he still speak often. He visits you."

"True. We're still friends. Good friends even. But it's not the same. It's hard to retain a close friendship when you can't talk to the person every day." He thought of the barrier that now existed between he and Harry, and his heart sank even lower. "Besides, since Seven. . . our friendship's changed. There's more distance."

He understood. Even if Chakotay's feelings for Kathryn were completely platonic now and had been for sometime, there was decorum and Seven's feelings to think of. Chakotay was a fiercely loyal person.

"Anyway," she continued, still not looking at him, "I found myself alone, the relationships I'd built on Earth wiped away by seven years of distance, the relationships I'd built on Voyager wiped away by change." She looked up at him. "And then there was you."

"And then there was me," he echoed with a small smile.

"When we first got home I genuinely wanted to give you distance. Because of Miral. Because of B'Elanna." They'd spoken infrequently then, but their talks were open, affectionate. He'd been fiercely proud of Miral; completely silent about B'Elanna. "But then everything else collapsed, and I got scared. Every time you contacted me, I wondered if this would be the conversation where things became awkward- where we politely talked about the weather in San Francisco, or whether or not such-and-such colony would join the Federation." She waved her hand, punctuating her worry, her discomfort.

"And so you just avoided talking to me all together."

"I know it's silly. And selfish. But I think I decided in the back of my mind that I'd prefer never to speak to you again than to feel that you, of all people, no longer understood me." She scrunched up her face. "How weird is that?"

"Admiral." The use of her rank caught her off guard and she wasn't sure what to expect. She sat up a bit. "Weird is part of the job."

It was what she'd once told Harry years earlier. A lifetime earlier. But it still seemed true. She snorted; a completely inelegant sound that made them laugh hysterically, leaning against each other for support. Eventually, they fell back against the couch, his arm still comfortably around her shoulders.

"I find it strange," he started, attempting to school his features. She was still shaking with silent laughter and he knew if he looked at her that he'd start up again, "that despite all my life experiences prior to coming here, I've never laughed as much as I do now." She grew still, considering his statement.

"Maybe it's that you know the true price of everything now. And you've learned to take the joy and the good where you can get it."

He wasn't sure if she was right or not, but it sounded good and he wanted to believe her. They were sitting up now, preparing to go back to the real world outside the cocoon of honesty and confessions they'd created over the last hour. He looked at her, a lopsided grin that she saw all too rarely these days.

"Well, I think I'm doing pretty well so far." He planted a kiss on her forehead, and then moved to stand up.

This time, there was no surprise or awkwardness. She just smiled, and took his hand to stand.


	7. Strange and awkward

Chapter 7: Strange and awkward

When her alarm went of that morning, Janeway felt refreshed.

After her talk with Tom, she'd stood up to leave. They both had piles of work to get through, and even she needed to sleep at the point. She said as much to Tom, and he had looked at her and shrugged. "You're welcome to do work here if you want." And so she had. He'd worked at the desk in his office, and she on the couch. They'd mostly worked in silence, but it had been nice to know that that he was just a few feet away. When she'd finally returned to her quarters, she'd taken a long bath and then climbed into bed.

Now, sitting at the dining room table and sipping her coffee, she waited for Tom to come by. He hadn't said anything about seeing her this morning, but she already expected his company and missed him when he was gone. It would be strange and lonely when she returned to San Francisco. She forced the last thought from her mind as her door chimed. It was 08:00. He was later than she expected, but then he didn't really have to be on the bridge until 09:00 today. She opened the door with a smile, but was surprised to find Jean-Luc, rather than Tom, on the other side.

After exchanging pleasantries, she invited him in and offered him a cup of tea.

"Not that I mind chatting with you, Jean-Luc, but what is it I can do for you?" Picard was an honest man, and she knew that she could be direct without ruffling any feathers.

He smiled softly, holding the cup of earl grey she'd replicated for him.

"Well, really I just wanted to check in on you. How is it to be on ship captained by your former pilot?" She hadn't particularly expected this line of questioning, but didn't mind in any case.

"Well," she said, "It's strange in some ways. Mr. Paris was a focused officer, but his chief priority was always flying." She smiled, remembering his duties in sickbay. "I assigned him to work in Sickbay with our EMH." Picard nodded, he already knew this from Paris' file. "He did a fine job, but he was always trying to finagle his back to the Conn." They were now seated at the dining room table, and she put her coffee down. "It's strange to see him turning over the Conn to Will Riker so he can go do something else."

"You know, in many ways it was the same with Will." Janeway seemed a bit surprised. "Don't get me wrong," Picard said with a small smile, "Will was on the command track forever and hell bent on getting his own ship when he was younger." He looked wistful. "But then he became my First Officer on the Enterprise, and he became settled. Happy." He took another sip of his tea. "I'm not sure how many commands he turned down before finally accepting the _Titan_. I'm rather surprised Starfleet didn't give up on him entirely."

They were silent for a moment before she admitted, "I don't know that I'll ever get use to not having my own ship." Picard had been made Admiral after she had, but everything in the Federation had seemed so strange, so new to her when she returned that it still felt like he was her senior. He'd never seemed to notice, always treating her like an equal. Until the day before.

"Yes, I don't know that I'll ever get use to that either. But at least it's nice to see my former officers growing, developing. Some of them taking their own commands."

Neither would console the other with gestures to the rewards of working in the admiralty. Both knew that they would trade it in a second.

"Commander Paris is a fine officer and a fine CO," he said, looking at her and smiling again.

She wasn't sure what to say. If Picard was really there to evaluate Tom, there were undoubtedly boundaries to this conversation. They were up to him to enforce, of course, but upon examination she wasn't really sure if she cared anymore. He watched her face.

"I'm sure you know that I'm here to report to Starfleet about Commander Paris. I would imagine that the Commander knows it, too." She hadn't expected his candor, but didn't let that show on her face. "I've been impressed by how open he's been. Most of the time you don't get to see an officer interacting with their staff informally when you do this kind of thing. Maybe, if you're lucky, you get to see them in a crunch; observe how they work together. But very rarely do you get to see the interpersonal dynamics- the currents of respect, emotion. The tension between protocols and personal relationships, and how it's resolved."

"I'm afraid Tom had a lot of practice with that while we were in the Delta Quadrant. We all did." She was smiling, but it didn't reflect what she was feeling.

"Still. It's impressive. He's impressive. That incident with the Norel, Rix, and Kim." He shook his head ruefully, and she smiled a bit. "It speaks volumes about how much they respect him, care about him. But most new CO's would have overreacted, made an example. Especially given that it happened in front of his former Captain, and another Admiral with whom he's not personally acquainted." He was right, she knew. "But he handled it firmly, evenly. With a sense of humor. And did you see poor Lieutenant Kim?" Now she laughed out loud. "I thought the poor young man was going to pass out. Which is impressive, given that Will tells me he and Commander Paris were quite close before this posting."

"They were each other's best friend's on _Voyager_," she acknowledged, nodding. Picard's eyes softened with compassion.

"That must be difficult. How is the Commander handling it?" She hesitated. It wasn't that Picard was evaluating Tom; it was that there were things that weren't hers to reveal.

"It's difficult, of course. Harry can't be his best friend out here. But Tom's handling it." It was truthful, but not too revealing. It was the best answer she could give.

"Good," Picard said, dipping his head and looking at his empty cup. "Well . . . I'm out of tea, so I should leave you to your morning." The both stood and she escorted him to the door.

As she put on her jacket and readied herself for he day she thought to herself that the whole exchange was strange. Jean-Luc was always pleasant, but it wasn't like him to just drop by on someone for a personal call for no reason.

"Computer, location of Commander Paris."

"Commander Paris is on the bridge."

She scrunched her face. She wasn't sure if he hadn't come by at all, or if he'd swung by but reconsidered because Picard was with her. Either way, she was a bit saddened not to have seen him before he went on duty.

. . . . .

The rest of the morning was strange.

She joined Tom on the bridge, but he seemed distracted and said little. She considered asking to use his ready room again, but Picard received a series of confidential messages from Starfleet Command and ended up taking them in there. They were arriving at Zexan IV that evening, so she assumed it had to do with the diplomatic discussions going on there. The colonies in the Zexan system had been flirting with Federation membership before the war had happened and managed to survive the worst that the conflict had brought. They were still interested in the protection the Federation would offer them, but they were cautious. Janeway thought they were wise.

By lunch time, she was cranky. She tapped with a little too much force at the data screen that was next to her, and her forehead furrowed so much that it appeared a massive web of lines. Tom regarded her warily.

"You know, I only have one of those," he said, tapping the data screen gently with his index finger.

"Hmm." She was not amused. Tom fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"Perhaps you should join me for lunch?"

"I'm not hungry."

"I could replicate some of my famous coffee."

"Bribery will get you no where, Commander Paris." Her eyes didn't leave the data screen.

"Suit yourself," he said, giving up. He'd been on a ship with her for seven years and knew when to surrender. In this, he and Chakotay differed. "I'm going to get some food." Paris turned over the bridge to Rix with a nod.

When he was halfway to the turbolift, Janeway realized she was being juvenile. He was about to head to lunch, and instead of joining him, she was going to sit on the bridge to stew. He saw her rise and held the lift, but said nothing when she entered. His face was blank, but she swore she could feel him smirking in his head.

"Jean-Luc came by to see me this morning," she informed him, when they were alone in the lift.

"Oh?" He sounded surprised, and she realized with a dull pain that he hadn't come to see her at all that morning. "What about?"

She only looked at him pointedly.

"Ah," was all he said in reply.

"It was kind of about me, too, I guess," she remarked, shifting. "The whole thing was strange. And now the morning has been strange, too." He fidgeted and as spoke. "And now you're being strange." She realized she was bordering on petulant but didn't quite care.

"How am _I_ being weird?" he said, looking at her.

"You're fidgeting."

"Me? You're the one shifting back and forth as if you're trying to rock the turbolift." After this, the doors slid open, and she resisted the urge to glare at him.

In the mess hall, he was greeted by crewmembers with waves and 'hellos'. He smiled warmly in return to all of it, and Janeway tried to put on a happy face. He replicated two plates and two cups of coffee, and handed one of each to Janeway. He picked a table in the back by a window, and they tucked in, Janeway facing her back to the mess hall.

After a few bites, he looked at her. It was the look he'd given the Conn on _Voyager_ when his course corrections didn't input properly.

"So, what's wrong with you, anyway?"

"I don't know." He stared at her, and she realized he expected her to go on. She let out a slow breath. "Last night was lovely. And then I woke up and got dressed."

"And?"

"And then Jean-Luc chimed at my door, and I expected it to be you." She threw her fork down on her tray, though with no force.

He looked at her sympathetically. It didn't help her mood; she hated this kind of sympathy when she was annoyed.

"I'm sorry I didn't come by this morning," he said, earnestly.

"Don't be, it's not that we have a standing appointment or something." He smiled. They kind of did, even though it had only been two days. "Besides, I had just seen you eight hours before." She was trying not to sound like it bothered her, like she'd missed him in that short amount of time. She might have been convincing if she hadn't picked her fork back up, and begun meticulously rearranging the food on her tray.

"I'm off tomorrow," he offered, "we could go to the holodeck."

"Commanding officers don't have days off. Not really." She sipped her coffee.

"So I've come to understand in the last few months." He removed the napkin from his lap and placed it on his tray. "But at least there's no specific time that I'm required to be anywhere tomorrow." He looked at her, hopeful. She shot him an icy glance, and resumed constructing shapes out of her food.

He exhaled forcefully, his face dropping. She looked at him and felt guilty. Petulant _and_ selfish, she chided herself.

"I'm sorry, Tom. I'm not very good at this yet."

"At lunch? You've never been good at lunch."

She looked at him incredulously. She was trying to apologize and he was doing shtick. "You know what I mean."

"I do." He smiled. "And you're forgiven. . . It's not your fault if you're. . . needy."

Her head shot up. She opened her mouth to respond, but his eyebrows raised, daring her to contest his words. She considered him for a moment, before closing her eyes and shaking her head. She couldn't look at him right now. He'd called her out, and she couldn't deny it.

"I am needy, aren't I?"

"Yep. It seems that way." He was grinning at her the way he had grinned at Harry when his friend bemoaned that he was never going to get a date with Megan Delaney. "Needy Nancy. Admiral Needy."

She was going to punch him. She narrowed her eyes, willing herself to be big and scary even though he was taunting her with this.

"You should be very careful, Commander. You of all people know what I'm like when you push me." He laughed at her warning. He clearly wasn't afraid.

"It's not my fault that you waited two years. And now that you have me, you have no idea how to behave." His words contained no rancor.

"Just. You. Wait."

He stood up, stacking both of their trays. "Come on, Nancy. I'm due back on the bridge." The entire lift ride, she contemplated ways to make him pay. He assumed as much, but didn't seem to care.

. . . . . .

At 17:00, Janeway and Paris stood in the transporter room, bidding farewell to Riker and Picard.

"It was good to see you, Tom." The two men shook hands and then briefly hugged. "Deanna will have my head if we don't find a way to get us all together." Tom smiled.

"It was good seeing you, too, Will. And if I ever need a pilot. . . " Riker stared at him. "I'll make sure to call someone else," Tom finished, and they laughed, Will slapping him on the back.

Janeway and Riker said their good-byes, as did she and Picard.

"Commander, it was a genuine pleasure," Picard said. "You have a fine ship."

"Thank you, sir. It was good having you," Paris responded sincerely, and both men smiled.

After the pleasantries were over and the two officers were beamed down to Zexan, Janeway seemed to slouch a bit.

"Well, now that your guests have departed, I believe I'm going to head to my quarters."

"Not just yet, Admiral." Paris dismissed the crewman manning the transporter, and Janeway looked at him expectantly. She knew that they were taking on Federation diplomats from Zexan, but she couldn't fathom why he wanted her to stay for it. She was tired, and though less cranky than before, wanted desperately to climb into her bathtub.

Paris hit his comm badge.

"Zexan IV to _Nighthawk_. One to beam up."

"Affirmative, Zexan." Tom said, and then initiated the transporter.

Janeway thought for a second that her eyes were playing tricks on her until she looked at Tom and saw that he was grinning like an idiot.

"Chakotay!" she exclaimed. Before moving to hug her old friend, she hit Tom in the arm. With force.

Chakotay eyed the whole exchange with interest as he stepped off the transporter pad and hugged Kathryn.

"It's so good to see you," she said, pulling away.

"You, too." He eyed Tom's shoulder with sympathy. "Ouch."

"I may have had it coming," Tom said matter-of-factly. He'd dated and married a Klingon; he was long-accustomed to being physically assaulted. "I made her miss you and then told her not to comm you." Chakotay shook his head ruefully, and Tom shrugged. "It would have ruined the surprise."

Chakotay laughed, and the two men embraced. Eventually, the three of them headed off toward the turbolift, bumping arms, and discussing possible ways that Kathryn could make Tom pay.

"You could make him write you a paper on temporal paradoxes. You know how much he loves those."

"Thanks, Chakotay," Tom drawled, "glad to have you on board."

Kathryn laughed as the lift doors hissed shut.

. . . . . .

After Paris showed Chakotay to his guest quarters, he left Chakotay and Janeway alone. He'd said, quite naturally, that he had things to finish up on the bridge. He probably did. But they were both sure he was also leaving them alone to talk.

It was a nice gesture, but it meant that Kathryn was going to be forced to face her awkwardness. She adored Chakotay as a friend, but they'd be been struggling to find a rhythm lately. More precisely, she was struggling to find it, and he was trying like hell to keep things going.

They were sitting in the living room, Kathryn on the couch and Chakotay in the chair. They were chatting about the relations on Zexan, Chakotay's feelings about how the Federation was handling it, when they both grew quiet. Normally, it would have been an awkward silence. There'd been a lot of those lately, and Chakotay kept praying to the gods that they'd get better.

She looked at him, eyes intent, face open. He said nothing, waiting for her to speak. He very rarely saw her this unguarded anymore.

"I've missed you." Her words were simple, but they touched him.

"It hasn't been all that long I guess." He was right, but this wasn't what she meant. He was giving her both an out and an in. He was almost certain she would take the former.

"Yes, but things haven't been comfortable between the two of us." She sipped the coffee she'd replicated. "And that's my fault. I've been awkward, made things strained."

He wasn't sure what to say. Honesty of this kind had never been her strong suite, but he would give as much as she would. And more.

"They have been awkward, haven't they? I'm not sure why. I mean, we don't work together anymore, but it isn't as though we're incapable of getting on without business in common." She leaned her head back on the couch, before sitting up straight again. It was as though she was reluctant but gathering strength. He waited.

"I'm sorry I acted so poorly after my visits with Seven didn't go well. Thank you for. . . being persistent even when I acted like a coward."

After it became clear her report with Seven would not recover, she'd not only stopped visiting, but stopped talking to him completely. When he attempted to contact her, he'd been ignored. After a month, he'd shown up at her office, angry and hurt. He'd sat on her desk, invading her personal bubble, and said that the only way she was going to get him out of her life was by beaming him out into space. She'd said that it could be rearranged. . . Before she realized she was being an idiot, and took it back. She'd never apologized and he'd never asked her to. Their friendship went on, but it was strained, fumbling.

"You were forgiven a longtime ago. But I'm still grateful I was persistent. . . I suspect I wouldn't have heard from you for two years if I hadn't barged into your office." He raised his eyebrows as he spoke. It was an obvious question about Tom.

When she'd stopped returning Paris' messages, Chakotay had felt sympathy for the younger man, as well as confusion and anger at Kathryn. She asked about him, and was obviously concerned, invested. But she made no move to contact him. Chakotay had only made the mistake of pressing her on it once, and had let it drop thereafter. She shook her head, unmasked regret and self-reproach in her eyes. He thought this was an even rarer sight.

"Boy, was I an idiot there." He smiled, and began to wonder where all this new-found honesty was coming from. "I'm just lucky I didn't cause permanent damage. Even luckier that Tom is more forgiving than I am."

"Tom," Chakotay started, relaxing in his chair, "has always seemed to have an incredible capacity for forgiveness. With the notable exception of self-forgiveness." She looked at him, pursing her lips. He was right, of course.

"True, but it seems like that's gotten better. The way he talks about _Voyager_, his past. . ."

"B'Elanna," he finished, and she nodded. She hadn't wanted to say it for some reason, but it was true nonetheless.

"He was always a good man. But I think he's better now. I think he knows his worth now."

Chakotay's words echoed a thought she'd had the previous morning. Did all of her former officers operate on the save wave-length as her, or was it just Tom and Chakotay?

"What?" he asked, curiosity apparent. She realized she was smiling.

"I had the same thought yesterday." She'd been staring off into space, and now she looked back at him. "And it strangely occurred to me that you and Tom often seem to voice my thoughts before I've spoken them. Chakotay smiled, but she could also tell he was getting ready to say something serious.

"I'd like to think I know you well, Kathryn." She smiled again. "But if I can read you with any ease it's because of years of practice and hard work, not because it came naturally. It's like someone who lives on a flood plain learning to read the skies." The smile fell from her face, and she studied him.

"Are you comparing me to a natural disaster?" He laughed at her.

"Well, your movements are unpredictable to an unskilled observer. And you never, ever ask permission. So, yes." She held the bridge of her nose. Perhaps he was punishing her after all. "But Tom always understood you. Even through everything that transpired between the two of you."

He'd didn't have to specify the 'everything'. The demotion had been hard on Tom, but he'd taken it well. He hadn't seemed angry at her, and he didn't pout. Whatever distance had developed between them had nothing to do with his actions or her responses. And what of the warp ten incident before that? It was awkward, of course, but they went on without much thought. If it had been another officer, she realized now, it would have made for a long seven years.

"You're right," she said finally, dropping her hands from her face. "Which is why I find it all the more incredible that he's letting me off the hook so easily."

He looked at her, sympathy in his face, but something else playing in his features. She knew that he was about to tell her something she didn't want to hear and she fought the urge to close her eyes again.

"The man Tom is now wasn't a sudden occurrence. It was an evolution. During _Voyager_. After." She wasn't sure where he was going. "He never said anything, but I wouldn't be surprised if he blamed himself for your silence- if he thought he'd somehow done something, said something."

She looked stricken. She hadn't considered the possibility. The Tom Paris that she'd found on the _Nighthawk_ was beyond senseless guilt and self-loathing. But had he blamed himself before? Of course, he knew the truth now. But it didn't wipe away the pain he must have felt then, or the new-found guilt she felt now.

Chakotay came to her side, sitting on the coffee table; invading her space. She didn't mind.

"You're both fine, Kathryn. You're both going to be just fine." She looked at him, her face attempting to twist into a half-smile. She didn't feel happy at all.

"I know that. I do." She patted his knee. "But someone once told me that for relationships to work, both people have to bend." He looked at her. "I feel like I haven't been doing a whole lot of bending lately."

"So do a whole lot of bending in the future." His eyes twinkled as he said this, and it made her feel better.

. . . . .

That night, Tom suggested they have dinner in his quarters. He'd insisted on cooking, of course, but he brought the food down from the ship's galley. Chakotay hadn't seemed to mind at all.

Kathryn and Chakotay were already sitting at the dining room table when Tom entered with the food. Chakotay saw the soup urn and smiled immediately.

"You made mushroom soup!" It was Chakotay's favorite and Tom had made it for him many times in Washington. Tom's face appeared to drop.

"No. . . I," he stammered. "I'm sorry, Chakotay. It's tomato. I didn't even think. . ." Chakotay felt deeply embarrassed, color rising to his cheeks.

"No, Tom. It's fine." His tan cheeks continued to color. "I just assumed. . ." Tom put the soup urn down, lifting the lid.

"Well you assumed right." He smiled triumphantly as the smell of mushroom soup filled the room. Chakotay looked gob smacked. Janeway appeared slightly horrified.

"You're a bastard, you know," Chakotay said without rancor, but deliberately, as though he were pronouncing a sentence.

Tom laughed out loud and Chakotay began to grin despite himself.

"That isn't a nice thing to say, Chakotay." Tom looked the picture of innocence as he began to fill bowls. "What did I ever do to you besides help a Starfleet Captain hunt you down in the Badlands, pretend to be insubordinate after that, and then divorce your oldest friend?"

There was an awkward silence, a clatter of spoons. Kathryn drew in a breath. This was going to be bad, and she had know idea how to diffuse it. She looked at Chakotay, who seemed to be silently drawing in strength. Tom looked wholly unapologetic for the joke, raising a spoon to his mouth. Before she knew it, they were both rocking back and forth with laughter. She couldn't believe it. It had been fine the entire time.

Both men continued to shake with laughter, and Kathryn looked at them, half disapproving, half amazed. This made them laugh harder. What was it about her that had this effect on groups of men?

"Exactly," she began, sounding exasperated, "when did this begin?" At 'this', she gestured with a hand between the two of them. Chakotay eventually stopped laughing, and Tom leaned back in his chair.

"I don't know. After the second year on _Voyager_, I think we decided we didn't hate each other," Tom offered, his lips still pulled into a grin.

"I thought you stopped hating each other when we got stuck in the Delta Quadrant?" The neb exchanged looks. Had she really been that naïve?

"I think when we first ended up out there, we decided we weren't going to kill each other," Chakotay clarified, softly. "It helped that the jerk saved my life."

"After that. . . " Tom shrugged.

"You were married to B'Elanna," Chakotay filled in, his eyes soft. Chakotay and B'Elanna had always been close. But they were very different people, and he felt for Tom.

"And then I wasn't," Tom finished. Their was regret in his eyes, but affection in his voice as he looked at Chakotay. It told Kathryn everything she needed to know. B'Elanna had brought them together as friends. The divorce and who Tom became after had made them closer.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Tom said suddenly, looking frustrated with himself. He tapped his comm badge. "Commander Paris to Lieutenant Kim."

"Kim here, sir." Chakotay's eyebrow shot up at the address, and he shared a glance with Janeway. Paris held up a finger to his lips as a sign to his companions.

"Please report to my quarters ASAP." Tom's voice was all business. Chakotay fought the urge to laugh, Kathryn shook her head.

"I . . . Yes, sir."

"I don't suppose you told him that I was coming and this is a dinner?" Chakotay asked, when the comm line was closed.

"Of course not. He wouldn't have been able to keep it from this one." He gestured at Kathryn with his thumb. "Besides. . . This is more fun."

Harry Kim walked nervously down the corridor. The journey to the Commander's quarters had seemed to take an eternity, but in reality had only taken ten minutes. He stilled himself outside Tom's door. He couldn't still be mad about the Norel thing, could he? I mean it was insubordinate, but it was because he cared. They'd been friends a long time, he and Tom. This couldn't possibly a major issue between them. Could it?

Kim's thoughts continued to grow darker as he chimed the door. He heard the Commander bid him entry. It was his command voice. Harry cringed. This was going to be awkward. Horrible and awkward.

Entering, he stopped dead in his tracks as he saw the scene before him. Chakotay was there, and he, Paris, and Janeway were sitting down to dinner. There was a fourth table setting that was obviously meant for him.

"Chakotay," Kim said fondly, "I didn't realize you were with us. It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you, too, Harry." Chakotay paused, looking at him intently. "But I have to ask. What do you know about the opera _Carmen_?"

Kim looked at Paris and Janeway; their faces wore command masks as they looked down at the table. Chakotay was staring at him; his voice had been serious, dark. It all would have been very intimidating. . . if Harry were three years younger. Harry smiled, and shook his head.

"I have a right not to incriminate myself, if I'm not mistaken." They all laughed.

"Come over and sit down, Har," Tom sad fondly, patting the seat beside him. "You're late for family dinner."

Kim took his seat and Tom filled his bowl with soup. Janeway looked around the table and smiled, quickly blinking away tears. Chakotay saw it, and winked at her. Tom found her hand underneath the table and gave it a gentle squeeze.


	8. The nature of combat

Chapter 8: The nature of combat

Janeway sat reading in her quarters when her door chimed. She silently wondered if her quarters were some kind of mandatory check-in point for Paris' drills, given all the traffic she was getting.

It had been almost two days since they'd beamed Chakotay aboard. Having him there was nice, and had given the opportunity to repair things with her former First Officer. Still, it meant her time with Tom was interrupted. Yesterday, Tom had the day off and he, Chakotay, and Kathryn had spent much of it together. In many ways, this was enjoyable. It was rewarding to see the relationship the two men had formed, and she enjoyed spending time with each of them.

Still, Chakotay and Tom had already found their rhythm, and it was easy to feel like a third wheel. They could say almost anything to each other without worrying about the response. Chakotay was involved enough in Tom's life that he asked easily about Miral and how often Tom was getting to see her. It was a subject Kathryn had yet to approach given the pain she knew it caused him. Tom had left Kathryn to eat dinner alone with Chakotay, and he'd gone to have dinner with Harry. As nice as it was to see Tom making an effort to find a middle-ground with his friend, she'd already grown accustomed to having a monopoly on his off-duty time and felt a bit let down.

Now, it was early evening the next day. She'd spent half the day with Tom's staff, going over the modifications they'd made to the _Nighthawk_, and the other half working in her quarters. She'd made an appearance on the bridge once, but Tom had been barricaded in his ready room, doing who knows what, and she decided not to stay long.

Getting up, she wondered if it was Tom at her door. The alpha shift ended an hour ago, if he'd left on time, and she'd learned while she was on the bridge that he'd exempted himself from the physical fitness training that was going on that night.

"The Commander said that both his and Lieutenant Commander Rix' times gave an unfair advantage to the alpha shift," Harry had informed her, with a tinge of embarrassment. "So instead they're going over personnel reviews tonight." She'd nodded at the young man solemnly, successfully suppressing a grin from her face.

Getting up from her chair, she called for entry.

"Hey," Chakotay said, coming into from the corridor. Her face must have fallen a bit. "You know, you could hurt a guy's feelings looking that disappointed when he walks into the room." He said it lightly, but she cringed.

"Oh, Chakotay. I'm sorry." She sat back down, and he joined her in the living area.

"Don't be. I know you probably haven't seen Tom all day. I know I haven't, anyway." She and Chakotay had breakfast together, as well as lunch, when she'd gotten a break from examining the ship. They'd both hoped Tom would join them, at least for breakfast, but he'd commed them to say he was having to head to the bridge early.

She sighed. A confirmation of Chakotay's statement. He leaned against the arm of the couch, looking unmistakably mischievous.

"What was it Harry said Tom was doing rather than participating in the torture to which he's subjecting his crew?"

"Personnel reviews," she said, looking up at him with curiosity.

"Computer, location of Commander Paris."

"Commander Paris is in Holodeck 2."

She looked at him with surprise, and then amusement.

"Busted," Chakotay said, standing up again. "We should go pay a visit to our former officer. See how those personnel reviews are going."

She shook her head, standing up. She liked the way Chakotay's mind worked.

. . . . .

The holoprogram was of the caves on Vulcan. Flames lit the rock circle Rix and Paris were standing in. The high stone ceiling arched ten meters above them and large stalagmites framed the space, separating it from the walkway one used to enter it. The rock was a pale pink hue, but the light from the torches cast a bright red and yellow glow across the walls.

The dramatic setting was absurdly juxtaposed with Rix's chosen selection from Tom's archive of twentieth century music.

"It's not that I think Ensign Riggs isn't qualified for his position. He's a good pilot, a smart pilot," Tom said, again brandishing his weapon, a Vulcan kitar stick. He lunged at Rix, and she easily maneuvered out of the way, deflecting the blow. "It's just that I think he's surprisingly green given that he's now two years out of the academy." The absurd music played on.

_You put the lime in the coconut. You drink them both together. You put the lime in the coconut. Then you feel better. Put a lime in the coconut, and you drink them both up. _

"You say that, but let's be realistic about the fact that you're harder on the pilots than anyone else," she said, dodging another blow. He was starting to pant now.

"Granted."

"He just needs time, a few professional bumps and bruises." Rix thrust right and then left, landing a blow.

"Point, Rix," the computer chimed, above the music.

Janeway and Chakotay had walked in a few moments earlier, unnoticed, and were now unsure what to do. Above the bizarre music, they could make out the conversation. Chakotay looked at Janeway uncomfortably when he realized they were, in fact, interrupting a conversation about personnel. They silently decided whether to try to leave without detection, or else stay and hope there was a lull in the conversation (and battle), during which they could announce themselves.

Janeway chose the latter, stilling Chakotay with a hand to his arm.

"He might not be afforded the time he needs. The universe throws unexpected things at us all the time." Rix lunged again as Paris said this, but he dodged it. Barely.

He had size and height on his side, but she had been practicing this kind of combat for decades, lifetimes. She'd spent the last thirty minutes exhausting him, making him work for his points. She guessed that it was only a matter of time now. So did their observers.

She regarded him for a moment as they broke apart. He was referring to _Voyager_, and being trapped in the Delta Quadrant. It was tricky terrain when he did this, but Rix had already learned how to navigate it.

"You were, too. At one point. Maybe not green. But. . . Not fully formed."

"True. But not everyone is lucky enough to be thrown to the other side of the galaxy to sort things out." His tone was honest, without a trace of sarcasm. She blocked a thrust one, twice, but he swiftly turned around her and landed a blow.

"Point, Paris."

"You do that, you know," she said, shaking her head, and moving towards him again.

"What?" His breath was ragged, his chest heaving.

"Refer to being trapped in the Delta Quadrant as a stroke of luck. A kind of privilege." She moved on him and he deflected her blow decisively, sending her back with force.

"I guess I think, in a lot of ways, it was a privilege." He faked a thrust that she went to block, but swung back around with an agility he should no longer be capable of, landing his blow.

"Point, Paris. Match, Paris," the computer concluded.

Paris slouched a bit; Rix hunched her shoulders, her hand at her hips. Chakotay and Janeway appeared, now in view of Paris and Rix. They nodded.

"I really thought I had you that time," Rix said, shaking her head.

"I know you did," Paris replied. It was free of mocking. The Trill eyed her CO warily.

"Are you going to say something now about the wisdom and strength that comes from command?" It was the kind of joke Tom would have made months earlier. But he found such jokes tired now, and remarkably free of humor.

"No," he said, appearing to control his breathing, "I was just going to tell you not to spar with someone who's been in prison." He smiled. She shook her head again.

"Same time next week?" she called over her shoulder, and made to leave.

"Of course," he replied in a steady voice.

Janeway regarded Paris with some embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, Tom. We found out that you were on the holodeck and thought that you'd pulled a fast one on Mr. Kim." Chakotay looked markedly sheepish. "We didn't mean to intrude."

Paris nodded, not seeming the least bit put off. But he said nothing. Chakotay looked behind him to entrance, and then back to Paris.

"She's gone now, Tom."

"Oh thank Kahless," Tom exclaimed, abruptly slumping down with a thud on the stone floor. Janeway looked at him, amused. Tom looked up at both of them from his haphazard position on the floor. "I'm a physical person. Really I am. And I've always liked sparring. But. . ." His breath was still ragged and Janeway wasn't sure how he managed to control it a minute earlier. "Fighting with someone who's been practicing for hundreds of years is just. . . " He waved his hands in the air here, and Chakotay let out a laugh.

"You're not as young as you once were, Tom," Chakotay said, extending him a hand. Paris regarded his jovial friend with a grimace.

"I'm keenly aware of that." He took the proffered hand and pulled himself to his feet.

"What do you say you get cleaned up, and I'll replicate dinner?" Kathryn offered, smiling.

Chakotay and Paris exchanged glances. The idea of Janeway making dinner, even in replicated form, was not a happy one. Neither said anything, but both men tried to find a diplomatic response.

"Maybe Kathryn will even let you use her use her bathtub," Chakotay said, safely changing the subject as they exited the holodeck.

Paris called for the lift and readied himself for a ribbing.

"You never built me a bathtub, Tom." Paris looked at the man next to him and then Kathryn.

"You never built me one either, Chakotay."

Kathryn froze, not looking at Chakotay. She imagined Chakotay would be wounded that she'd talked to Tom about their experiences on New Earth. It had seemed natural, harmless even, given that Tom had designed her bathtub. But now she regretted it. As the lift doors opened, Chakotay laughed.

"I suppose I didn't," the older man chuckled. Janeway let out a breath.

"Maybe we should ask her who built the better one," Tom remarked, leaning against the lift wall.

Kathryn froze again, silently cursing her big mouth. She was spared from responding by the chirp of Tom's badge.

"Richards to Paris."

"Go ahead, Ensign Richards."

"There's a high priority message coming in for you from Starfleet, sir." Tom stood up straighter.

"Patch it through to my quarters, Ensign. I'll be there in five minutes." Paris got the sinking sensation he wouldn't be having dinner of any kind. He looked at Chakotay and Janeway. "You two should go ahead without me." His voice seemed strange. "I'll find you later."

Exiting the lift without them, he strode toward his quarters.

. . . . .

Twenty minutes after leaving her in the lift, Paris had commed her, asking her to join the senior staff in the briefing room. His tone was all business, but there was something about the way he asked her that reflected something like guilt. But perhaps she'd just been imagining things. She'd tried to figure out what was going on, but realized she had no clue. She'd apologized to Chakotay for deserting him, and made her way to the bridge.

She joined the staff ten minutes later. She was the last to arrive, and she slipped into a seat between Kim and Chief O'Donnell. Tom was there in his uniform. He'd obviously showered, and was now pouring over the screen in front of him. Rix sat to his right. The Trill typically had a calmness about her, a kind of unflappable serenity that didn't quite dip into stoicism. Sitting beside Paris now, she looked grave, and she regarded her CO and the rest of the staff with measured glances.

Janeway tried to make eye contact with her, but the younger woman studiously avoided her. This was not a good sign, Janeway knew.

Janeway was still staring at the First Officer when Paris called the meeting to order. His face was solemn, and the seriousness that reflected in his blue eyes made her uncomfortable.

"Two months ago, Starfleet received intelligence that a blackmarket munitions plant was operating in the Degan system," Paris said, looking around the room. This wasn't news to Janeway, who read the Starfleet recon reports daily before coming aboard the _Nighthawk_. "Until recently, there wasn't sufficient evidence to pursue these reports, at least not militarily." He paused, taking a drink of his water. "Two weeks ago, Starfleet received another intelligence report confirming the Degan plant was supplying Cardassian forces, and authorized a ship to eliminate it roughly one week after that." He seemed sit up straighter in his chair. "This mission was given to the _Nighthawk_."

Janeway's face didn't fluctuate at all, and Tom watched her calmly as he continued his speech.

"The initial plan was for the _Nighthawk_ to take out the plant two weeks from now, when we believed a scheduled shipment of power relays would provide a weakness in their defenses. Unfortunately, that timeline has now been moved up."

He tapped on the data screen and diagrams of three ships appeared before them. Within moments, everyone realized that these were the ships that had attacked the _Pioneer_.

"The ships that we encountered three days ago are a part of the munitions operation, and attacked the _Pioneer_ because they falsely believed it to be carrying uridium." Next to Janeway, Kim inhaled sharply. "As all of you know, uridium is a mineral traditionally used in the construction of Cardassian sensor arrays. The fact that they're looking for it means the plant is no longer just producing weapons, but also ships. It's immediate elimination is necessary."

Paris tapped on the data screen again, and the ships disappeared, replaced by a diagram of the Degan plant.

"I'm not going to pull any punches," he said standing and making eye-contact with each of his officers. "The plant is heavily fortified and will undoubtedly have patrol ships similar to the ones we encountered." He looked around once more. "This is going to be a difficult mission. But I believe in this ship and I believe in this crew, and I know that we're going to be successful." Paris resumed his seat. "We have 38 hours until we reach the Degan system. Mr. Kim, Rix, your teams will go over the data on those ships. I want to know every advantage we can pull if we come up against ships like them. Chief, I want your staff to go over the data we have on the munitions plant. There has to be a weakness other than one Starfleet had previously identified."

Tom looked at Janeway, and she tried to keep her face in check.

"Admiral Janeway has been receiving intelligence reports on the Degan plant for weeks now, and is a valuable resource." She swallowed the retort that came to mind. She didn't feel very valuable right now. "We'll look to learn from what she knows in any way that we can."

With a nod, Tom dismissed his staff. Janeway retained her seat. Rix, normally the last to leave with the Commander, noticed this and slipped out with the Chief and Kim. Paris was sitting at the front of the room, and she at the back, having slipped into the last available seat. There was an entire table between them. Or maybe a galaxy.

"How long did you know?" Her voice was even. It didn't betray accusation or pain.

"Officially. . . Five days ago, when they authorized the mission. But Starfleet had been hinting for weeks that there would be something like this coming. The _Nighthawk_ is ideal for it. They just weren't sure if I was."

"Still, it's an honor to be given this. The chain of information was tight." Tight enough to not include her. "It means they trust you."

"Honestly, I think they just didn't have a choice. Not to mention my dislike of the Cardassians is open knowledge." His father had been a POW of the Cardassians, and was never the same when he returned home. Janeway knew this. She'd been with him. They'd never spoken about it, but Tom knew what her first post was, despite what was officially listed on her record.

"I assume Picard . . ." The older man's uncharacteristic behavior made sense now.

"Yes. I think that he was supposed to make sure I wasn't violating orders regarding the chain of information. The morning after he left, he contacted me , gave me permission to inform Lieutenant Commander Rix, but no one else. I suspect I knew what was coming if they were letting me tell my First Officer."

She marveled at the irony of a Lieutenant Commander being brought into the loop before an Admiral, but she made no comment to this.

Instead she said, "I'm sure you're right. I suspect he stopped by my quarters to gauge whether I knew anything, and went from there."

They'd held eye contact for the entire exchange, but it felt to Tom that she was looking through him, past him. It was the same look she'd given him when she'd ripped the pip from his collar five years ago.

"Kathryn,"

"I should go. I have data to go over." She stood up, not looking at him. "I should also inform Chakotay that we're both going to be a bit occupied."

With that, Kathryn left. Tom turned his face to look out window of the briefing room, and gazed at the stars. He felt painfully alone.

. . . . .

Sighing, she looked out the window in front of her. She couldn't sleep, so she wandered the ship until finally coming to rest in the hydroponics bay. Despite the ship-wide commotion that ensued after the meeting, it was an area that was empty at this hour.

She knew that he was standing behind her before he said anything. He used to do this on _Voyager_. Sometimes she'd hoped that if she didn't acknowledge him, he'd go away. He never did.

"It's impolite to stare, you know."

"I'm not staring," Chakotay said, "I'm considering my approach. There's a difference."

When she'd left the meeting earlier, she'd found Chakotay and filled him in. Her voice was even, her explanation precise. She'd said nothing about her feelings, made no complaints. He hadn't bought it one bit, but let it go. Until now.

"Your approach?" She turned to him. "Why do I warrant an 'approach'?" He looked at her, his eyes narrowing.

"Because. I've read the skies and it looks like I should be heading for high ground. Or, at least, someone should." She exhaled sharply, turning away from him.

"You have no idea how profoundly disturbing it is to be repeatedly compared to a force of nature." Her voice was cold. "A destructive, horrific force of nature."

He made no reply.

"I can't sleep," she confessed, her voice softening.

"So I gathered." She turned around to face him again. He seemed to search her face for a moment. "You're not allowed to be angry at him for this, Kathryn." His voice was firm, his gaze steady.

"I'm not," she responded quickly. Too quickly. "I'm just . . . Thinking." She held eye contact, appearing to be sincere.

"You're not allowed to be angry at him," he repeated, as though she hadn't heard him.

She spun around. He waited.

"Dammit," she said after a moment, slamming her hand against the bulkhead next to her. It made a satisfying thud and she paused to appreciate it. "I'm an Admiral, Chakotay. An Admiral. And I wasn't informed." She was still turned to the window. "I've been running around this ship like an idiot for days not knowing what was going on." He doubted the characterization was accurate but let her continue. "I understand that the context of this was difficult. But why did they promote me, why they put me in this position if they don't trust me?" He understood her exasperation.

"I think you have every right to be angry, to feel betrayed." She turned around to look at him. "At Starfleet. Not at Tom." She opened her mouth, but he raised his hand to stop her. "He was following orders, Kathryn. Orders that he probably didn't like very much either. But you would have done the same thing in his position, and you'd be disappointed if he'd behaved any differently."

She closed her eyes. Her will dissolved.

"You're right."

"Yes. But you've known what I'm saying all along. The real question is: why are you so eager to be angry at Tom?"

She hadn't expected him to push her like this. Her head began to dully ache. Her back and neck felt sore and stiff. She no longer enjoyed that Chakotay could read her thoughts. She felt claustrophobic and wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else.

"I don't know."

"Kathryn," he sounded exasperated now. She made no move to answer him. She had no energy left. She felt him come up behind her, and then his hands were gently on her shoulders. "It's easier to push people away than to bring them close where they can hurt you." His voice was soft and she fought the desire to cry. "You can't keep picking fights with people, and hoping they don't notice." She began to shake. "Fighting isn't any easier than love. It's more exhausting, and it comes with all the scars and none of the beauty." She shook harder, and he remained still.

She rested the back of her head against his chest, and he stayed there until the tears stopped.

. . . . .

He woke with a start to the sound of his door. It was 03:00 and he'd only been asleep for an hour, having spent the night pouring over recon reports. He stumbled into the living room, not calling for lights. His foot connected with the chair and he swore loudly in French. He keyed open the door, and squinted in the light.

He wasn't fully awake, but he could tell that she looked awful. He moved aside so she could enter, calling for lights.

"You should sleep," he said blinking.

"I tried. I couldn't." He wanted to feel sympathy for her. But he had been be able to sleep, and was doing so soundly when she'd woken him. "It's probably because I'm an idiot. And I realize that I'm an idiot. But I have no idea how to stop being one."

He flopped down on the couch, and looked up at her.

"You're only an idiot when it comes to people." He swung his legs across the couch to lay down. "And even then, it's strangely in the narrow vein of your own relationships." She sat down on the couch with force. Her backside connected with the couch; her legs stretched perpendicularly over his.

"We should talk about what happened this afternoon."

"Later," he said, already falling back asleep. "Now. . . Sleep." She shook his knee.

"Tom, wake up. Seriously." He sighed heavily.

"You were an idiot. I forgive you. End of story. Now let me sleep." He added, more gently, "I promise we'll talk when I have time tomorrow."

"Tom?" she asked again a few minutes later, this time sounding desperate.

"Yeah?" he was already half asleep.

"Do you really think being stranded in the Delta Quadrant was a privilege?" He was losing the battle to sleep, and he answered without thinking.

"Everyday. . . Don't you?" With that, he was out.

She sat in her awkward position on the couch, dejected. She didn't want to go back to her quarters yet. She wasn't ready for sleep, and would go crazy with restlessness. With a sigh, she pulled the brown quilt from the back of Tom's couch and covered both of them. She planned to sit there long enough for Tom to fall into a deep slumber, to gingerly to get off the couch and creep out, going back to her quarters. But before she knew it, the exhaustion over took her.

Admiral Kathryn Janeway of the Federation, despite all of her efforts, lost the battle to sleep, and lay stretched out on the couch next to her former helmsman.


	9. The species of betrayal

Chapter 9: The species of betrayal

Tom reclined on his couch, reading a report Rix and Kim had sent him the night before. It was almost 07:00 and he was now showered and dressed, save his uniform jacket and boots. His legs were stretched out across the couch; the sleeping form beside him lay pressed against him for warmth, tiny feet buried under his legs. He regarded her every so often over his PADD.

An hour after Kathryn fell asleep on his couch, Tom had woken up disoriented and uncomfortable. Once she was unconscious, the weight of her legs had pressed into him, and his own legs bent at an awkward angle. He'd thought about waking her, but ultimately decided against it. She'd looked disheveled and unlike herself when she'd barged into his quarters earlier, but asleep she looked peaceful, serene. She was already leaning over from upright position she'd fallen a sleep in, her faced pressed into the back of the couch. It was anything but graceful. He'd carefully taken off her boots and swung her legs up and over his own. She hadn't woken- a small miracle- and immediately curled up behind him on the couch, her head at the opposite end than his.

When he'd woken again, he'd carefully gotten off the couch, but was sure she would come to. He'd gone into his bedroom, cancelled his alarm before it went off, and showered, but returned ten minutes later to find her still asleep. He'd been amused, and settled back into a semblance of his previous position. He was even more amused when, in her sleep, she burrowed her feet under his legs.

Her unconscious actions were unguarded, and endearing. Entirely uncharacteristic of her waking behavior, he thought.

She was partially awake before she opened her eyes. The room she was in was silent, but the smell of coffee was finding her. She was pressed against something warm, and her body felt relaxed. She opened her eyes with a start when she realized she had no idea where she was. He looked at her with a brief smile before returning to his reading.

"Good morning," he said, his tone casual. She didn't respond, but suddenly felt very conscious of the fact that she was pressing into him. She maneuvered slightly in the room she had, and closed her eyes, missing him smirk.

"I take it I fell asleep here?" she asked after a moment. Her voice was strange, professional. It sounded like she was inquiring about their current speed or heading.

"Mm-hm." He drank his coffee and she glanced at the table next to them, seeing that a cup was already waiting for her. "After you unceremoniously barged in here, you essentially fell asleep on top of me. I considering beaming you into the crowded mess hall. Or perhaps Astrometrics. But you looked like you could use the rest, and so I took pity on you." He wasn't looking at her and she was grateful. He was going to make her pay for her behavior, she realized. Even if it was just through malicious taunting.

She looked at him for the first time properly since she'd woken up. He was dressed, but looked completely at ease with their physical proximity. She propped herself up slowly, reaching over his legs to grab the coffee cup from the table. She didn't get up from the couch, but instead rested her back against its side , mirroring Tom's position.

"I was an idiot yesterday," she said eventually, looking at their legs, which were still covered with the quilt and almost touching beneath it. Her words echoed what she'd already said when she stumbled into his quarters the night before, but she realized they beared repeating.

"Yes." His voice was even, but she detected a hint of frustration.

"I'm sorry.." She looked at him again, willing him to look up from his work. He did, but in the patient way one regards a small child when they they've gone too long without a nap. She knew she'd earned the sentiment. "I . . . spent much of my formative years ordering people around." She closed her eyes briefly. "And then I spent seven years in the Delta Quadrant as the highest ranking officer."

"And now you're an Admiral, still ordering people around. And acting as though you're still alone in the Delta Quadrant." His words were frank, but he looked at her with affection.

"I'd like to think I'm out of practice, but I suspect I was never very good at this kind of thing to begin with." They both could have wondered what, exactly, 'this kind of thing' was, but neither did. "I'm sorry," she said again, her head dropping.

"It's okay." He seemed to stretch out, and his leg brushed hers. "I can only imagine how frustrating it was being left out of the loop. It was certainly frustrating having to leave you out."

She drank her coffee and looked out the window.

"I know that Starfleet now operates with a degree of paranoia." It was the understatement of the year, they both knew. "But I don't know what I could have done to earn this kind of treatment. Certainly, my sentiments on the Cardassians are as well known as yours." He looked at her again with sympathy. "Maybe it was all those years of not having to answer to anyone, not having to defend my decisions."

Next to her, he shifted uncomfortably. She noticed it, felt it, and looked at him expectantly.

"I don't think you should take it personally," he said , not looking at her. It was the same way he'd acted both times he'd fidgeted nervously in the turbolift. She realized he knew something and she sat up straighter, looking at him intently.

His face looked torn, but not uncomfortable. He was holding eye contact but his gaze was measured. Whatever he knew, she guessed, it wasn't about her directly. She decided to test the waters.

"Still." She sipped her coffee while keeping her eyes on him. "It's strange that they would inform other officers before they informed an Admiral. Kind of defeats the point of being paranoid."

"Depends what you're paranoid about, I guess." He sipped his coffee casually. "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean there aren't really people after you."

He was telling her that they were right to be concerned, but obviously he couldn't think they were right to be concerned about her specifically. She narrowed her eyes in thought.

"I've always thought it strange, tragic, that some of the greatest acts of betrayal that are committed against societies occur at the top of their political organizations. It's true of Earth's history, Vulcan's-"

"Starfleet," he finished, glancing a her. She slumped back against the side of the couch with a thud of understanding.

There was a threat to security within the admiralty, perhaps a spy. She hadn't been informed because they couldn't inform her. He gave her a meaningful look.

"I don't think you should take it personally," he repeated. After that, she was lost in thought. He finished reading Rix's tactical report, and she contemplated the sad state of the Federation as she looked out the window.

Abruptly, she turned to him, swinging her legs off the couch. He assumed her sudden urgency was about their previous conversation, and looked at her with acute concern.

"I've been here all night," she said, her voice rising. He was confused; his brows knit together. "If anyone asked my location they would know that I was here all night."

He'd just informed her minutes earlier that there was a threat to the Federation deep within the heart of its own ranks, and she was off the hinge about the appearances of their friendship. He laughed out loud. She got off the couch, crushing his legs as she got up.

"Tom, this isn't funny." She began to pace the living area. "I don't think there's anything inappropriate about our friendship. But I'm an Admiral. I can't just stay over night in your quarters. It doesn't look good. It doesn't look. . . Professional. I don't even have my comm badge with me!" He was still grinning as she continued her worried rant, and she spun around on her heel to glare at him, hands on her hips.

"Are you finished?" he asked, gesturing the path that she'd just walked and then re-walked. She nodded, her frustration coming to a slow simmer. "Well. . . You shouldn't worry too much about appearances. When I woke up and found you asleep, I programmed the computer to read you in your quarters, and to alert me if anyone chimed your door. I also rerouted any communications for you to my comm badge."

She closed her eyes, considering her response. Gratitude and then embarrassment washed over her features. He knew her well enough already to guess that she would express neither of these. He was right.

"So," she said, hands still on her hips, "exactly how many overnight guests did you use this little trick for when you were on my ship, Mr. Paris?"

"Let's see." He appeared to be calculating in his head. "One. . . Not exactly a Federation record." The look on her face told him this wasn't the answer she was expecting, and he stood from the couch, sighing dramatically. "You shouldn't believe rumors, Admiral. Especially when they were rumors I mostly started." She looked incredulous. "Now. . . There's a fresh change of clothes for you in my bathroom and you're welcome to use the sonic shower. Unless, of course, you would prefer to take your chances in the corridor, so that you can get dressed in your own quarters."

She considered her sorry state of appearance. She was out of uniform, and her clothes had obviously been slept in. She had no make up left on her face, and she couldn't even imagine what her hair looked like. Without so much as a 'thank you', she strode through the door that led to the bathroom.

He shook his head and wondered how in the hell he managed to fill his life with difficult women.

. . . . .

Hours later, Janeway was in the briefing room going over the alien ships' schematics with Rix. Chakotay, Kim, and Ensign Richards had been with them earlier, but were now in engineering with the Chief.

Chakotay didn't miss being on a ship the way Janeway did, but he was eager to help in anyway he could. Paris had been happy to accept the help; Chakotay had been a brilliant strategist when he was with the Maquis, and led many daring assaults.

When dark-haired officer first arrived in the briefing room, Ensign Richards had eyed him intently. Chakotay wasn't sure the nature of tactical officer's interest- not everyone in Starfleet had been thrilled that the former Maquis on Voyager had been given commission upon their return. He silently wondered if old wounds ever completely healed.

"My father was in the Maquis," the officer said finally, when they were out of earshot of the others. Chakotay looked at him, and wracked his brain. The Ensign was in his thirties and had dark features like his own. Something clicked.

"Paul Richards is your father?" The young man didn't look like his father at all. Paul had been fair-skinned and his grey hair was bright, having been blonde when he was younger. He'd been one of the first Starfleet officers to defect.

"Was. He's dead now."

Chakotay realized his gaffe and felt remorse. He tried not to dwell on the tragic ending of his former comrades.

"I know. . . I'm sorry." He looked at the younger man, and realized the look in his eyes was one of admiration. And curiosity. "Your father was a fine man. And a credit to the cause. There were countless scrapes we wouldn't have made it out of it wasn't for him." Richards had opened his mouth to reply, but Janeway had approached them to ask Chakotay something. The officer had let it drop, and Janeway had glanced at Chakotay quizzically.

Now Janeway and Rix were going over the ships' shields, probing for weaknesses. Rix got up and walked to replicator, silently returning with a cup of coffee for Janeway and a cup of tea for herself.

"Not a coffee drinker?" Neither woman's eyes left the schematics.

"I was. . . But I quit drinking it when I got married. My husband said it made me irritable. I initially responded by calling him an array of colorful names. . . But then I realized that this actually illustrated his point." The Trill's voice was calm but her eyes narrowed here. "His annoying point." Janeway smiled over her PADD.

Their conversation was interrupted by Chakotay rejoining them.

"Anything?" Rix asked, hopeful.

"The Chief thinks he might have found something. Commander Paris is down there with him," Chakotay replied, pulling out a chair.

Rix was already rising when Paris commed her.

"On my way," she said, before he even asked her to join him. After the First Officer left, Janeway filled Chakotay in on their progress, and they were knee-deep in calculations when she looked up at him.

"What was that earlier with Ensign Richards?"

"His father was in the Maquis."

"Paul Richards?" she asked, surprised. Chakotay nodded. "Starfleet wasn't too thrilled when he crossed over."

Richards had been a highly decorated Commander, and worked in Starfleet headquarters. Starfleet had been forced to re-work all of their tactical movements when Richards defected.

"When I was younger, despite everything with the Cardassians. . . I thought what Richards did was a betrayal," Janeway confessed.

"And now?" Curiosity played across Chakotay's face. Janeway shrugged.

"I don't know that there's any worse betrayal than that of betraying one's own conscience." Chakotay had been satisfied, and they'd fallen back into silently working.

"I assume you talked to Tom?" Chakotay spent two hours with Paris down in Engineering, but beforehand he'd seen Paris and Janeway briefly together on the bridge. He couldn't detect any sign of strain, not that either would show it easily. He'd been relieved.

"Yes," she drawled. "I believe my exact words were. 'I'm an idiot and I'm sorry.'"

"My my. Aren't we evolving." She knew the word 'evolving' was a subtle dig- a reminder of the warp ten incident. She silently wondered when Chakotay's humor had become so malicious. She blamed Tom.

Her foot connected with Chakotay's leg underneath the table, but he ignored her.

"I'm just glad things are back to normal . . . Whatever normal is between the two of you."

She looked up in surprise when he said this, but he didn't notice. She couldn't say that he was wrong, either. Her relationship with Tom was full of fits and starts. They'd fallen almost immediately into an intimate pattern of honesty and companionship, but it was also clumsy and strange sometimes. Correction, she thought, she was clumsy and strange sometimes.

This morning, when she'd gotten out of the shower, she'd dressed in his bedroom. The bathroom was small and one had to go through his bedroom to get to it. Still, she'd felt uncomfortable invading his private space. She'd tried not look around, but she couldn't help noticing the mock up of _Voyager_ that was on his night stand, or the picture of Miral that was next to it. She'd gotten dressed in a hurry, and when she'd finished Tom was already gone.

"Have I always been this difficult?" she asked, peeling her eyes away from their work.

He looked at her as though he was trying to read her intentions. Or perhaps her mood.

"Yes," Chakotay said finally. She gave him a scathing look. "But your charm typically makes up for it." They didn't speak again until Tom commed both of them.

. . . . .

An hour later, Janeway and Chakotay sat with the senior staff in the briefing room. The Chief had found a way to get into the Degan plant, and they were developing a plan around it.

Paris was went over their findings, pulling up the plant's diagrams as he spoke.

"It's not an access tunnel, really. It was likely used to dispose of production byproducts when the plant was first constructed sixty years ago to produce shield equipment." The entry point, they learned, was outside the plant's shielding mechanism, and it led all the way into the facility's main power junction. From there, they would be able to set off a power cascade.

"I assume we won't directly transport a team down there?" Kim asked, looking at Rix and Paris.

"No, we'll use one of the modified shuttles to slip in below their detection." Rix spoke looking around the room. "Extraction won't be as easy, however. Even if the team is successful in setting of the power cascade, it won't have time to make it back to the shuttle. And no doubt their defense forces will swarm the area once the breech is realized."

"Total time for the operation on the ground is about twenty minutes," Paris continued, "not a lot of time for the _Nighthawk_ to make it through patrols. Thankfully, Lt. Commander Rix and Admiral Janeway have been able to identify a way to get around the ships' shielding technology, as well as two weaknesses in their ability to maneuver." Here, Paris turned over the discussion to Janeway, and then the room opened up to discussion about the outline of their strategy,

"Now that we're all on the same page," Paris said, "I want to start rehearsing ground movements, as well as battle strategies." He stood, deactivating the schematics that appeared before them. "Ensigns Richards and Riggs will be with me on the shuttle."

Janeway froze in her chair but said nothing, and Rix's expression remained constant. Kim's face contorted in horror at the word 'me' and Janeway could tell before Tom even finished that young man was going to challenge the decision.

"Sir, Lt. Commander Rix or I could-"

"You have your orders, Lieutenant." Paris cut Kim off with a warning look before moving on. "Richards and Riggs, you'll meet me on the holodeck in two hours. The rest of you, see Rix for your assignments."

As everyone filed out, Janeway looked at Kim. He was staring at Paris, and she could tell he was about to try again. She made eye contact with him and shook her head. The Lieutenant appeared to sigh before turning on his heel and leaving the room. She, too, contemplated talking to Tom. But what about exactly? As he was already deep in conversation with Rix and the Chief, she fell in line beside Chakotay.

In the turbolift, Chakotay eyed her with measured suspicion.

"You alright?"

"Of course," she said, her back straightening.

"Right," he replied, his face blank. Her friend and former officer was only about to go on a dangerous mission. A mission that he shouldn't be on. A mission that should be led by someone other than the ship's commanding officer. Why should she be anything less than fine? She didn't turn to him, but her body language softened.

"I'm sorry about all the times I made you worry." It was something he never thought she would apologize for, never thought she would even recognize.

"I understood."

She nodded at his words, and the lift doors opened.

. . . . . .

An hour out of the Degan system, the Nighthawk launched the modified shuttle. Janeway stood beside Rix, watching the view screen as the small ship slipped from sight. They would give the shuttle twenty minutes of lead time, enough time for the vessel to slip stealthily beneath the facility's sensors and then for the team to begin their assent up the access tunnel. Janeway fought the sinking feeling that came over her as the shuttle disappeared from view, focusing on Rix' tactical panel instead. Chakotay stood beside Kim at Ops, but it was clear he had no interest in what was going in front of Harry.

"How long until the modifications to the photon torpedoes are completed?" Janeway asked, trying not to sound too authoritative. Rix was the ranking command officer in Paris' absence, and Janeway knew she had a bad habit of taking over.

"Two minutes. Maybe less." The Admiral had now been around the Trill long enough to recognize the signs of stress and concern. Her voice was even, her face calm. But little lines appeared on her forehead, and her mouth looked like it was suppressing a frown.

Twenty minutes later, they approached the edge of the Degan system.

"Two patrol ships coming into range," Kim announced.

"We're going to let them get a little bit closer," Rix announced. "I want to be as close as we can to the planet when we make it past those ships."

"Coming into weapon's range in 20 seconds." Kim's eyes were locked on his panel. "10 seconds."

"Engage evasive maneuvers Paris 9." As Rix finished her sentence, the _Nighthawk_ shook with fire briefly before darting out of range.

"Locking photon torpedoes on lead ship." The vessel shook again, and Janeway and Rix clung to the Tactical console. "Firing."

"Direct hit to their shields," Kim announced.

"Full torpedo spread. . . Now." The enemy ship shuddered with the latest fire; its starboard side gashed with damage.

"Second ship coming about." The _Nighthawk_ shook again, and Chakotay made his way to Tom's empty chair.

"Shields at eighty percent." Concern was starting to creep into Harry's voice. They only had ten more minutes to make it into transporter range.

"Evasive maneuvers, they can follow us all the way to planet if they want to." Rix's voice was now colored with uncharacteristic anger.

Janeway's fingers flew across the tactical panel, helping her input commands. Once the ship was directly behind them, Rix fired a spread of photon torpedoes, destroying their weapons array.

"Second ship retreating," Kim announced. Chakotay looked to Janeway and then to Harry. He wasn't sure who looked more relieved.

"We won't be alone for long, let's get our team out of there," Rix said. Kim didn't look like he had to be told twice.

"The facility's shields are still engaged," Harry informed them. If everything had gone according to plan, the team would detonating the charge in roughly two minutes.

"They still have two minutes," Janeway said in a calm voice. She wasn't sure if she was trying to reassure Harry or herself.

Three and a half minutes later, the bridge was tense with silence. Two more ships were converging on their position, and would intercept in less than two minutes. Rix looked like she wanted to punch the panel in front of her, and Janeway was gripping the edge of the console so hard that her fingers were numb.

Harry's voice cut through the silence. "Shields are down!"

"Get them out of there, Harry."

"I'm trying, but there's some kind of interference."

"Enemy intercept in thirty seconds." Janeway's voice was steelier than Chakotay ever remembered hearing it.

"Got a lock- dropping shields and transporting." When all three officers had been transported aboard, the _Nighthawk_ raised its shields just in time to be greeted by enemy fire. The ship shook hard, and the Conn officer struggled to stay ahead of the enemy ships.

Moments later, the lift doors opened and Paris strode onto the bridge. He had a large gash on his right cheek, and the chest of his uniform bore large blood stains that stood out even on the red material.

"Captain on the bridge."

The formality of Kim's announcement was almost absurd given that they were in the middle of a dog fight. But it was the only celebration they could allow themselves, and Paris nodded to him, taking his seat. The ship shook with fire again, and Paris called for a new set of evasive maneuvers. When they'd developed enough of a lead, the _Nighthawk _jumped to maximum warp, leaving their attackers behind.

"Status?" Paris asked, looking up to Rix and Janeway. Janeway's eyes shown and Tom tried not to meet them.

"Shields are eighty percent but holding. Minor damage to the hull." Paris stood up, and Kim looked at him, surveying his wound.

"Sir, you should go to Sickbay and have that treated."

Paris seemed to hesitate for a second, his countenance dark, but then he nodded. After a moment, it dawned on Janeway. Neither Richards nor Riggs had been with Tom when he returned to the bridge. From her position behind tactical, she and Chakotay exchanged a meaningful look.

After an hour, Janeway excused herself from the bridge, going down to Sickbay. When she first entered, she didn't see anyone but Doctor Norel. The Vulcan approached her, her eyes dark pools of emotion in an otherwise stoic face. Her voice was low, but didn't waver.

"Ensign Richards suffered moderate injuries from phaser fire, but will make a full recovery." Janeway waited. "Ensign Riggs' injuries were severe. We attempted to repair the damage to his cardiovascular system. But we were unable to save him."

Janeway felt a stinging behind her eyes, but looked back at the Doctor expectantly. Norel led her around a corner, to the surgical bay. She had mentally prepared herself for such an image in the turbolift, but turning the corner, she felt like someone had knocked her down and was standing on her chest.

On the surgical bed lay Ensign Riggs' motionless form. Next to him, sat Tom, his back to Kathryn. At first, he sat completely still, his arms limp at his sides. But after a few minutes, he stood up and took a tool from the instrument bay. He began to regenerate the lacerations on the young man's face, and then his neck and arms. His eyes were clouded with tears that didn't fall, and he performed his ministrations gently, methodically. When he was done, he put down the instrument and looked at the young man's face.

She couldn't watch anymore; she closed her eyes.

"You didn't tell me it would be like this." She wasn't sure how long he'd known she was there, but when she looked at him now, he was looking back at her with eyes that still couldn't cry. She wanted to say something, but knew there were no words. She wanted to comfort him, but knew that he wouldn't accept it. He turned away from her, and they stood there silently for an hour. Neither one cried.

When they left, he walked past her in a different direction.

. . . . . .

It was 02:00, and she wasn't sleeping. Chakotay had left the ship four hours earlier when the _Nighthawk_ had rendezvoused with the _Ulysses_. The two of them had dinner together before he left. Or, at least, they'd replicated food and sat at the table together not eating it.

Neither of them saw Tom after she left Sickbay. She hadn't described what transpired, but Chakotay was able to fill in what he needed when he learned about Ensign Riggs.

"Of all people for him to lose first, it was a pilot." His words could have been misinterpreted by someone who hadn't felt the losses of command. They could have sounded callous, as though one loss was better than another. But she'd nodded, moving the food around on her plate.

"I know."

When Chakotay transported over, Tom didn't see him off. He sent his regards through Rix, or so the Lieutenant Commander had said. Truthfully, neither Kathryn or Chakotay thought that Tom had spoken to anyone since he barricaded himself in his ready room. They'd both decided to give him space then. But now, late at night, she felt in the pit of her stomach that space was the last thing Tom needed.

She called for his location, and the computer responded that he was in his quarters. She walked down the corridor, and chimed at the door. When there was no response, she eventually overrode the lock, walking into his empty quarters. His comm badge was on the couch, but there was no Tom. Ten minutes after she called up the computer interface, she found him. He was deep in the bowels of the ship, in an access way not far from the warp manifold. She wondered if he was busying his mind with late night repairs.

As she climbed down the ladder to the walkway, the ladder clanked loudly, announcing her presence. She walked toward him, taking in the view.

The balcony he was on overlooked the heart of the engines. The steady heartbeat of the core filled the open space, and the glow of the powerful energy shown below them. He didn't look at her, but kept his perch on an access port that jutted out from the wall. No tools were around him. He hadn't come to do work, she realized. Just to think.

His face was open, his eyes were more desolate than she ever remembered seeing them. She stood there silently, waiting for him to speak, the steady pulse of the engines filling the gap between them.

"I wanted to hate you," he said finally. It wasn't how she expected this to begin, but she moved toward him. "When you refused to talk to me those two years. I wanted to hate you."

She wasn't sure if this was better than silence, but she decided she would take anything if he would talk to her. She sat next to him on the access port, her legs barely brushing his as she waited for him to continue.

"At first, I blamed myself. Thought that it was my fault somehow. After a few months. . . I realized it had nothing to do with me. Still, it hurt, and I tried desperately to cling to my anger." She understood; she didn't know why he hadn't, in fact. She made no reply. "But then I came here, took this command. And I just couldn't." He turned to her, and his eyes again shown with tears that wouldn't fall. "Seven years," he said with disbelief, "you did this alone for seven years."Suddenly, she realized where they were going. She didn't know if she was prepared.

"I wasn't alone." It sounded lame even to her ears.

"One late night bowl of ice cream in the course of seven years doesn't do a lot to sustain a person."

She could have replied that she had Chakotay. Tuvok, too. That the crew's support had meant the world to her. It was all true. But it didn't belie the point he made.

"No," she said, exhaling deeply.

"It must have been crushing." His voice was filled with empathy, and she thought that this was all happening in reverse.

"Sometimes. But sometimes it was perfection." He looked at her as though he didn't believe her, as if to say she was going to have to do better than that. "You asked me if I thought that being trapped there was a privilege." She shrugged. "The truth is, I shouldn't. There were too many losses. Too many burdens. And yet. . . I do think that it was a privilege. And I worry that I'm a horrible person for it. Like I'm betraying all those we lost."

He nodded, turning away in thought. She slumped against the wall behind them and he turned back to face her. "I'm sorry about the Monean home world." She looked at him with confusion, she didn't understand. His eyes were filled with something else. It wasn't pain, but guilt. "I'm sorry you almost had to shoot down the Flyer with me on it."

She closed her eyes. It wasn't something she ever expected him to understand. How awful it was that day. How vivid the nightmares afterward had been.

"I would have shot you down." They were same words she'd said to him when she stripped him of her rank. But now they held an entirely different meaning.

He found her hand, and she allowed herself to watch him. He was completely unguarded, his pain bubbling to the surface like a pot of boiling water. There were no pretenses or jokes.

Part of her wished he'd been like this the entire time she knew him. And a different part of her felt guilty for that. This kind of honesty had only cost him seven years in the Delta Quadrant. A failed a marriage. A child he never sees. The crushing burdens of command. She leaned against him, and she felt his chest rise and fall, as well as the vibration when he spoke again.

"I hate this. I don't want it anymore." They were the words commanding officers thought, but were never supposed to speak.

"And I. . . Would give anything to get it back."

They were silent after that, her head resting against his chest and their hands intertwined. The pulse of his heart blended with the sound of the warp core in her ears.


	10. The changing seasons

Chapter 10: The changing seasons

Janeway's last week on the _Nighthawk_ was less eventful than the first.

Tom and his crew worked their tails off to the repair the damage the ship had suffered in two consecutive battles, and she split her days between helping their efforts and compiling her report for Starfleet. Off duty, he spent almost all of his time with her; they ate breakfast together everything morning and met for dinner every night. Sometimes his officers joined them in the formal dining room, and sometimes it was just Harry.

The last evening she was on board, however, they ate alone in his quarters. The meal was simple and replicated, and they ate on the couch rather than at the table. Neither said much, but the silence was companionable and punctuated with affectionate looks.

Two hours after she went to bed that night, she was woken up by the sound of her door. She hadn't yet been able to fall asleep, and so made her way quickly to the living area. The doors opened to reveal Tom, rumpled and looking slightly frightened. He'd told her two days before that he was having nightmares. Though both of them had infinite material for bad dreams between them, she'd known exactly the kind of images that haunted him. Specters of charred bodies and smoke-filled decks; warning claxons, and cries for help that he couldn't reach. At the time, she'd said nothing, patting his hand with her own.

Now, he attempted to walk through the door into her quarters, but she put her hand on his chest, pushing him gently back into the hallway. She followed him down the corridor to his own quarters, walking in before him after he entered his code. She led the way to his bedroom, and he eyed her warily as she rounded the bed to reach its right side. This wasn't like her, he knew, but it was beyond his energies to question.

She eyed the bed with concealed interest as they'd entered; the blankets lay thrown to the floor and his sheets dangled in a mass at the bottom. She leaned over, silently straightening and smoothing things, before crawling in. He crawled in after her, still eying her as though at any moment she was going to leave him alone again. They lay facing each other, but didn't touch. Soon enough, he was asleep, and then so was she.

She woke up the next morning to find his arm draped over her torso, her head propped against his shoulder. She realized that it should have felt awkward or inappropriate, but it didn't, and she stayed still until he began to stir. His stretched his arm slightly, but let it relax again over her; his breath disturbed the hair just above her ear.

"You don't have to go back, you know," he said, after sometime. It was before 06:00 and his alarm had yet to go off. "Starfleet wouldn't even have to know you were gone." He was being ridiculous and childish, but here, in this space, such thoughts were allowed.

"Maybe you could rig a holo projection of me to sit at my desk. At the very least, it would buy me a few weeks."

Her words betrayed her longing, as well as her frustration. They both knew it, and his arm briefly tightened around her torso.

. . . . .

When she returned home, rain and cold wind greeted her. It was early February, and the idealic San Francisco of brochures and holovids was no where in sight. Her apartment seemed barren and lonely, her office at work a prison. She considered using some of the leave she had saved up, but instead buried herself in the backlog of work she had on her desk.

The day after she returned, Tom commed her. She was at home, reading dense diplomatic reports- tortuous things that made B'Elanna's engineering updates on _Voyager_ look like Victorian poetry- and it took her completely by surprise.

"Hey," he said, as soon she opened the line.

"Hey yourself," she replied, the tension from her shoulders miraculously subsiding.

"How's everything planet-side?"

"Well. . . The weather is horrendous and makes me want to hide inside. And the sentiment seems to have spilled into the Headquarters, as meetings today were even more unpleasant than usual. So, I guess. . . What you'd expect of San Francisco in the winter. How's everything there?"

"The Chief refuses to leave engineering unless I directly threaten his rank. The warp manifold is acting up again. And I'm convinced that Rix and Harry are plotting against me. . . All in all, the usual." He smiled as he finished, and she felt happy for the first time all day.

"I miss you." The words were out of her mouth before she thought about them and she immediately felt ridiculous. It had been less than 48 hours that she'd left the _Nighthawk_ and only a day since she'd been back in San Francisco. She fought the urge to hide her face from him.

"I miss you, too." His reply was natural, sincere. It made her feel less crazy. "I can't stay on long, but I wanted to tell you that I expect to hear from you often." He was looking at her the way he looked at O'Donnell when he refused to go off-shift; with a mix of affection and resolve.

"I know. I'd planned on it. You just beat me to the punch this time."

"I mean it, Kathryn." His tone was light but his eyes were serious. "If you suddenly go silent, I'll be forced to go AWOL and find you. And then you'll have the guilt of my professional demise to live with." She laughed, and his eyes sparkled. Their conversation ended far too soon, but she returned to her work with new-found energy.

After that, they spoke every other day. The days when they didn't speak were longer, harder for both of them, though neither chose to consider it. His temper was shorter, his foot tapped impatiently as he sat in his chair on the bridge; she barricaded herself in her office and spoke to as few people as possible.

Three months after she returned San Francisco, the _Nighthawk_, along with three other ships, were ambushed by Cardassian forces. All three ships made it, but the _Nighthawk_ sustained heavy damage and Tom lost ten crewmembers, including Ensign Richards. Admiral Longman was revealed as a traitor after the ambush- he'd been passing on information for profit- and the whole of Starfleet fell into a kind of malaise. Kathryn sat on a park bench under the May sun, and contemplated whether the she'd done her crew any favors by getting them back to the Alpha Quadrant.

After that, Tom stopped comming her and instead began to write letters; long, elegant things that articulated his cycle of frustration and hope, as well as the rhythm of his everyday life. When she received them, she often downloaded them onto a PADD to read outside, with sun shining on her face. She wrote back to him but her letters weren't as long nor, she feared, as elegant. Tom didn't seem to notice.

At the beginning of August, she began to grow impatient and restless. Tom had two weeks of leave coming up and he was spending part of it on Earth. It was a little over ten months since the _Nighthawk_ had been launched, and the ship was to be grounded for a final round of refitting. The assumption was that a permanent Captain would soon be named to replace him, and Tom was torn as to do what to do. He'd spoke in his last letter about taking a position again at the research facility- about wanting to settle into a normal life and spend more time with his daughter- but he seemed indecisive, and she was reasonably certain he would take a position as First Officer on one of the Fleet's larger ships when he relieved of commanding the _Nighthawk_.

Two days before the _Nighthawk_ was scheduled to dock, he commed her. It was in the middle of the day and she was in her office at Headquarters. When her secretary informed her, she rushed to answer the line, fearing something was wrong.

"They offered me command of the _Nighthawk_," he said, his face emotionless.

"Tom! That's wonderful! And such an accomplishment. Have you told your father yet?" Her faced beamed, and she inched closer to the screen. He looked at her with confusion, frustration; his brows knit together as though they had a bad line and he was struggling to make out her words. Or, more precisely, that she'd failed to understand his.

"Kathryn, I'm not taking it."

"You what?" She looked at him with complete puzzlement.

"I'm not taking it. . . I told you. . . Months ago, when you were here; I said that I don't want this." As soon as he said it, he could tell that she wasn't listening. Not really. It was the way his father listened when he was younger and spoke about joining the Naval Patrol.

"Tom, all CO's have moments like that. It's normal. But you have to think about what you're giving up- what you're turning down. They might not ever give you another ship if you pass on this. Think about your career-"

"What I'm giving up?" He cut her off, his tone seamlessly shifting from confusion to anger. "What about all the things I'm giving up on while I do this? Seeing my daughter more than twice a year, having a normal life and normal friendships. This isn't the life I want, Kathryn."

"Tom, you aren't thinking this through." It was her command voice, and the patronizing sound of it made him lose all sense of control and appropriateness.

"This isn't the life I want," he repeated. "This is the life _you _want."

"You say that like it's a crime!" She was angry, too, now, the blood rushing to her face. Instinctively, she drew away from the view screen.

"A crime? No. Unhealthy? Yes. But I've tried not make judgments about the way you've chosen to live your life. Putting your ambitions before everything else." He was yelling now, gesticulating in the same way as his father. "But I damn well expected you to respect my choices, and to not let your own screwed up priorities keep you from supporting me."

With that, he ended the comm line, and she sat seething at her desk for nearly an hour.

She managed to cling to her anger for three long days. It was an anger that pervaded everything, and even her secretary tried not to speak to her unless it was absolutely necessary. On the fourth day, she ran into Admiral Paris as she left the grounds and he told her that Tom had accepted a position back at the research facility. The older Paris was open about his frustration, as well as his disappointment in what he thought was Tom's inability to make good decisions. Kathryn found it hard to believe that, after all this time, he still felt the need to burden his son with the same expectations and pressures that had crushed him in his youth. She walked all the way home instead of taking the transport.

By the time she reached her door, her reproach had turned inward.

. . . . .

Kathryn showed up on the porch of Chakotay's house, unannounced. They spoke more frequently now and had lunch whenever he made the trip into Headquarters, but she still hadn't visited him in Washington. Through the screen door, he eyed her with a mix of sympathy and apprehension. She made stilted small talk with Seven in the dining room while he grabbed refreshments, and then he led her onto the back deck, a pitcher of iced tea in his hands.

She sat, not drinking anything, as the warm wind moved her hair. Somewhere, Tom was on leave without her. He might even be in San Francisco. She wondered if, wherever he was, the sun was beating down on his blonde hair, his blue eyes squinting in the light.

She could feel Chakotay's eyes on her, but he said nothing. She wasn't sure if he was giving her time to collect herself, or just refusing to make things easier on her.

"I was an idiot," she said, finally looking up at him.

"It seems be a recurring theme." Definitely refusing to make it easier, she concluded.

"Have you spoken to him? Is he on Earth?" Her voice was filled with pain and a bit of desperation, and his features softened as he looked at her.

"He was for a few days since he had to look for a place to live. But now he's traveling to meet the _Jackson_ while it's docked at Starbase 12. Spend some time with Miral." Her eyes fell, no longer meeting his. The silence seemed to stretch forever, broken occasionally by the rustling of the surrounding trees.

"I had no right." He made no reply. It seemed she was speaking as much to herself as she was to him. "It's his life and his career, and I had no right. It's just. . . He was so good at commanding. It suited him in ways I never thought possible."

"I think he found it rewarding, too," he said, refilling his glass with the pitcher, "but. . . fulfillment isn't the same thing as happiness."

"It's taken me along time, but I think I'm finally beginning to learn that." She angled her face toward the sun that was now beginning to set, closing her eyes.

"You realize," Chakotay began, his voice the gentlest it had been since the start of their conversation, "that Tom told you, in a round about way, that he was coming back to Earth, back to San Francisco where you are, and your first response to him was that it was a mistake." She cringed. She hadn't even considered that implication. He hadn't said anything directly about wanting to be near her, but he had said something about having 'normal friendships'. She dismissed it as being a remark about Harry, which was silly and foolish. She knew that he missed her. She also knew that she missed him more.

"I was an idiot," she repeated.

"Yep. But nothing says you have to be one in the future." She picked up her ice tea, and sipped it slowly. Together, they watched the sun continue its slow decent.

When Kathryn had gone, Seven joined him on the patio. Part of their conversation had drifted in through the backdoor, and she'd tried her best not to listen.

"Do you thinking they are secretly dating?" she asked, taking the seat Janeway had previously occupied. Seven had become fascinated by tortured loves and secret affairs. She found the concept and its accompanying emotions stirring, utterly captivating. Chakotay found her interest endearing. Most of the time.

He smiled ruefully. "No, they're not dating," he replied, and then the smile disappearing from his face. "But they're most certainly falling in love with each other. And both of them are either too preoccupied or too scared to realize it." Chakotay's voice was wistful and Seven moved to sit on his lap.

She felt suddenly grateful she'd never had to experience tortured love first-hand.

. . . . .

It had been surprisingly easy to find out where his apartment was and, then, to gain access. He wasn't living in a Starfleet building, but it was San Francisco and an Admiral's pips carried a lot of weight everywhere in the city. She would try to remember this perk the next time she was forced to sit through a three-hour meeting with the full admiralty.

Much of his things were still in boxes, but the apartment had furniture and he'd already begun to put up some of his furnishings. The place felt like him, and when she'd first walked in, she felt warm and safe.

Now, she was cooking pasta, or at least trying to. She'd opened the patio doors to let the smell of the previous botched attempt escape, and the evening breeze found her even in the kitchen. Tom would be home soon. His transport had already docked, and she was nervously ticking the time away in her head as she tried not burn dinner again. She selected music from his archive, choosing songs he'd often played on Voyager. She told herself that it wasn't manipulation, just background music, as she concentrated on grating the cheese.

When Tom opened the door, it was obvious he wasn't alone. He could hear the music and feel the warm air from the patio door. And something definitely smelled like it was burning. He sat his bags down in living room, seeing her over the counter that separated the two rooms. She didn't say anything, and he tried to decide how he felt about her intrusion.

"I didn't realize they taught breaking and entering in command school." His voice was icy as he walked into the kitchen. His eyes took in the mess she had made there.

"They don't. Just a little thing I picked up in the Delta Quadrant." She continued grating. "Good thing my pilot was a felon." She didn't look up from her work, and he didn't laugh. He came around to the plasma stove and turned down the rue she'd been cooking.

"I'm sorry to tell you, but it looks like the bottom of this is scorched." He stirred the contents of the pan around for a moment, revealing the blackened bottom. She put down what she was working on and allowed herself to look at him for the first time since he entered.

"I guess I'm not very good at this. Never have been, really. But. . . wanted desperately to get better." The secondary meaning of her words wasn't lost on him, but he didn't appear all that moved.

"Sometimes there are things we just never get good at." He turned to dispose of the burned sauce and she felt her eyes well with tears. He turned back around and gave her a measured look. "Why don't we save my kitchen anymore harm, and go around the corner to the Vietnamese place? At the very least, they make a coffee that could keep you up for three days straight."

His manner was still reserved, but she accepted. Content, if nothing else, to be saved from cooking.

At dinner, she made her apologies. And when he accepted but smiled politely, she made them again more profusely, telling him how much she'd missed him- how happy she was that he was going to be near her. He finally caved, and they walked arm-in-arm back to his apartment. They stretched out on opposite ends of couch, as had become their custom on the Nighthawk, but he now positioned her feet to rest in his lap.

"What was your worst day on _Voyager_?" They'd been talking for hours, about everything from his visit with Miral to their childhood memories of their fathers. His question was random, but didn't seem so in the haphazard conversation they'd been having.

She considered her answer, looking out the still-open balcony doors to the stars that now shown. "When the Kazon left us on that planet." She looked back to him and her face didn't show embarrassment or remorse. "I know that I should say that it was when I lost members of the crew. . . But the truth is that those days, however horrible they were, kept me going. Kept me fighting. Even if hey haunted me later . . . But that day, left stranded on that planet. . . I wanted to crawl under a rock and give up." He understood what she was saying immediately. When the Kazon robbed her of her ship, they robbed her of her hope.

He still remembered the look in her eyes when he returned to them with help. It was as though she didn't quite believe it, as if she had already given up someplace deep inside herself.

"What was yours?" He looked thrown off when she asked him, and she thought perhaps he didn't understand. She clarified, "what was your worst day in the Delta Quadrant?"

He'd understood the first time she asked, but for some reason he hadn't expected the question to be returned to him. He seemed awkward and embarrassed. He looked away from her, but it wasn't because he had to find the answer. She was puzzled by this; he never really seemed embarrassed in front of her anymore, and it was a quality she often envied. She watched him with interest, saying nothing.

"When we had to leave you and Chakotay on that planet.," he replied finally, looking her in the eye as she spoke. And then he stopped breathing. Her eyes seemed to mist, but her body noticeably shifted.

She looked away from him again and said, in a soft voice, "maybe B'Elanna was right not to want me outside your door."

He wasn't sure what to say to that and felt overwhelmed by guilt. Like he'd confessed to adultery, to some kind of on-going affair. Maybe, in a strange way, he had. He sighed and waited for her eyes to return to him. When they did, she found him looking open, honest; his embarrassment was gone.

"It's not that my feelings for your were every inappropriate, exactly." He squinted his eyes as if trying to make sense of things. "I just. . . always seemed to care a little too much."

She made no reply, and he silently thought that he'd finally thrown off the strange balance they'd managed to achieve between them. He assumed that she would pull away from him now, dutifully replying to his comms and requests for dinners, but ultimately keeping him at arms' length. Eventually, they would stop talking altogether. And then, decades later, there would be a funeral. One of them would them sit next to a grave, crying over the burial of their long-lost friend. One of them, inconsolable with grief, would mourn the endless possibilities. His ears were already filled with the sound of eulogy when she replied.

"I cared too much, too." She smiled. A rueful smile, as if admitting defeat. He looked at her with surprise. "I think I cared so much I even sentenced you to thirty days in the brig. Just to prove to myself that I didn't."

Almost all of the senior officers had protested his sentence after the water world; thirty days and a demotion was harsh- more than anyone else had ever received for similar breeches. But Tom had never questioned it, and had assumed he deserved whatever she dished out. Looking back, he'd been far too eager to accept her wrath.

"It didn't work," she went on, "it only broke my heart."

She looked tortured and full of regret, and he looked at her with affection and understanding.

. . . . . .

After Tom's first night back in San Francisco, his friendship with Kathryn went on as it had before. Tom worked at the research facility and taught an advanced piloting course two nights a week at the Academy. Things at the research facility had changed; Starfleet was now onto bigger and brighter ventures, and his department fought tooth and nail for every scrap of funding. The challenge suited him and he reveled in the work. The facility's resources were largely out of Kathryn's oversight, but when it came up in full meetings, she spoke her peace. When she did so, Admiral Paris looked at her with a question in his eyes, but he never actually said anything. She ignored it.

Kathryn spent much of her free time at Tom's apartment. Her place was larger and closer to Headquarters, but it somehow felt cold and uninviting. She'd always thought that she had good taste in decorating, but she realized now that she had a way of making any space look like Starfleet regulation. Tom remarked as much once. When she stayed the night, she stayed in his guest bedroom. On the now rare occasions that there were nightmares, they managed to find each other, but always returned to their respective rooms before going back to sleep.

In November, her mother was taken ill. Tom took personal leave from the research facility, joining her in Indiana. For a week, Kathryn spent everyday at her mother's hospital bedside, along with her younger sister, Phoebe. She returned to the house well after dark and slept in her childhood bedroom. Tom slept on the couch in the den and woke up early every morning to greet her with freshly made coffee. Kathryn had lost her appetite entirely, but Tom made Phoebe omelets or pancakes, making funny shapes out of the pancake batter that caused Phoebe's laughter to carry all the way to living room.

On the sixth day, her mother's health improved and Kathryn was flooded with relief. She walked from the transport station with Phoebe, Kathryn shoving her gloved hands in her pockets to keep warm. It was bitterly cold, but no snow had fallen yet that week.

"So," said Phoebe, her eyes on their feet as they plucked there way down the path, "how long, exactly, are you going to drag your feet about Tom?" Kathryn jerked her head up in surprise, but Phoebe suspected her reaction was partly feigned. Her sister had to be expecting this line of questioning at some point.

"Phoebe, we're friends." Her voice sounded horrified but the horror didn't travel all the way to her eyes.

"Right, Katie. Friends who spend all of their time together, who practically live together." Phoebe's voice dripped with frustration, and Kathryn found it hard not to scowl at her patronizing manner. "When was the last time either of you dated someone, anyway?"

Kathryn's mind churned. She'd gone on a few dates the first two years after their return, but no one ever seemed to hold her interest and nothing serious materialized. Now, she didn't even think about dating, but it was possible she was just too tired, too unwilling to try. But what of Tom? He hadn't dated on the Nighthawk, of course, but now that he was back on Earth there was nothing to stop him. Certainly, the divorce had left its share of scars. But Tom wasn't the kind of man to hide away; he'd returned to Earth because he wanted to live his life, after all. Why wasn't he dating?

Kathryn let out a harsh breath and briefly turned her face up to the clouded sky. It was an admission- a confession. But Phoebe looked at her, demanding that she say it out loud.

"We both have feelings for each other, Phoebe. At least I certainly do." Phoebe gave her a scornful look; a look that told Kathryn that she was crazy if she thought that her feelings were one-sided. Kathryn withdrew her hands from the safety of her jacket, gesticulating as they walked. "I just don't know to change what we've been doing. What if he doesn't want to risk our friendship? What if he wants to keep things the way they are, and I go wrecking things, making declarations of love and devotion?"

At the word 'love' Phoebe raised an eyebrow, but, to Kathryn's immense relief, made no comment.

Instead, she said, "Katie, for the last week that man has been sleeping on a ten-year-old couch that has more lumps than you have pips. He gets up at the crack of dawn just to make you coffee. And when you leave the room, even if it's only to let the dog out, he looks more bereft than I knew was humanly possible." Kathryn froze in her tracks. "Do you really think there's any doubt that he wants the same thing you do?" When Kathryn didn't respond, Phoebe continued dramatically, "if it wasn't all so horrifyingly sad, it would almost be comical."

The rest of the way to transport station they were quiet, but just before they reached the house, Phoebe whipped around, looking at Kathryn with a wry grin.

"It doesn't hurt that he's gorgeous, and several years younger than you, does it?"

"Phoebe."

"I'm just saying," Phoebe turned back around, walking to the house again. "There are certainly worse men to be trapped on a ship with for seven years."

"He was _married_ part of the time, you know."

"And that makes it so much better, doesn't it?" The horror finally found Kathryn's eyes.

"Sometimes I hate you."

"I know, dear." Phoebe pushed open the door and Kathryn followed her in, wiping her feet on the mat.

That night, Kathryn couldn't sleep. It wasn't surprising; she hadn't slept well at all since they got to Indiana. But this time it was a different kind of sleeplessness. Restlessness took possession of her whole body, and she twitched endlessly under the blankets. After a few hours, she cast the covers aside and crept down the stairs. She paused on the landing, looking out the window that was at the bottom of the stairs. Snow had begun to fall during the night and white flakes clung to the windowpane. By morning, the snow would be up to the top of their boots, and her mother's dog would refuse to go outside.

In the den, Tom was sleeping soundly but she wasn't sure how. He was a bit too tall to fit entirely on the couch, and his feet draped awkwardly over one end. He was laying curled up on his side, despite that he preferred to sleep on his back. No doubt, it was to avoid the discomfort of the couch's many dips and bumps.

She sat down gingerly next to him, perching on the few inches where his torso bowed in, away from the edge of the cushion. She ran her hand softly through his hair and he stirred.

"I'm sorry, Tom. Go back to sleep. I didn't mean to wake you." He stretched, turning over on his back, but didn't open his eyes.

"It's okay. I've gotten used to the fact that you have a bad habit of wanting to talk when I'm trying to sleep." His voice was groggy and lower than usual, but his tone was still affectionate. She thought it was adorable.

"That's because I also have a bad habit of thinking while _I'm _trying to sleep." Her hand was in his hair again as she spoke, and he unconsciously nuzzled against it before he found it with his own hand, squeezing.

"Stop worrying, Kathryn, and go back to bed. Your mother's going to be fine. Everything's going to be okay." He was still half-asleep, but even in this state he wanted to reassure her emotionally, physically. She smiled.

"I know. And I'm not worrying. At least, not right now."

"Well, if you're not thinking about your mother, what is it that's interrupting your sleep, and so mine?"

There were a dozen ways she could of replied, but she didn't consider any of them. Instead, she bent down and pressed her lifts softly to his. She didn't use any pressure, and she didn't close her eyes. After less than a second, grey eyes looked into blue ones. He was wide awake now. She sat up slightly, her hand still draped across his chest.

"What was that for?" His voice was curious. Mystified even. But he wasn't uncomfortable and he didn't pull away from her.

"That," she said resting her chin on her hand, "was something I should have done months ago."

He was grinning at her now, something about his face looking slightly lecherous. She liked it.

"Months?" he asked, pushing a piece of hair behind her ear. "Not years?" She feigned shock, sitting up and taking his hand. "You could have joined me in the brig, dismissed the guards. . . I would have thought of a few new ways to kill thirty days."

Only a few hours earlier, they were close friends and nothing more. Now, without any long, drawn out discussions, he was making sexual innuendos and looking at her with only partially masked desire. The transition was seamless.

"You're going to pay for that, Mister." She stood up, pulling him by the hand as she rose. "But first we're going to get you off this old couch."

Upstairs, the mattress in Kathryn's room was soft, and entirely free of lumps.

Tom didn't notice the bed at all.

. . . . .

In March, Kathryn and Tom decided to move in together. She spent almost all of her time at his apartment anyway, and neither felt the need to cling to the idea of a refuge that was their's alone, away from the other.

Tom told Chakotay when he and Kathryn went for dinner in Washington. Seven and Kathryn were in the dining room setting the table, and the men were finishing up dinner in the kitchen. Tom had opened the window to let some air in. It was still too nippy to eat outside on the deck, but the gentle rustle of cool air through the kitchen felt nice. Chakotay was genuinely happy for them, but looked surprised. Tom looked back at him questioningly over the sauce that he was stirring.

"It's a little fast. You two haven't been dating that long." Chakotay's voice was low but contained no judgment. Tom rolled his eyes, smiling

"Yeah. It's only been four months. Ten years and four months. . . We're living life dangerously." When Seven and Kathryn joined them in the kitchen, both men were shaking with laughter.

"Do I want to know?" asked Kathryn.

"Probably not," Chakotay replied.

The next week, Tom and Kathryn were measuring walls in the apartment. Kathryn hadn't officially given up her place yet, but they were already in negotiations to buy the studio apartment that was next to Tom's two-bedroom. Kathryn wanted to add an office and a third bedroom; Tom wanted to expand the kitchen. He was on a ladder in the hallway and she was on the floor of the second bedroom, examining the baseboards. He called to her through the open door.

"I'm officially on my father's calendar for tomorrow morning," he said, getting off the ladder. They'd decided that he would be the one to tell his father about their plans. Or rather, Kathryn had decided, and he hadn't complained. "I assume once that happens, we're going to have to start thinking about how to handle this with the brass."

Tom wasn't directly in her line of command, but he was still based in San Francisco and Kathryn made judgments about him in the larger sense of having say about the research facility. There were going to be concerns, at the very least. She grunted a reply from her seat on the floor, but didn't look up from her work.

"You know," he said, "it's going to be easier on us if we just go ahead and get married." His tone was casual, and he leaned against the ladder in thought. She came out of the bedroom, peaking her head through the door frame.

Marriage hadn't been something that was off the table, but it wasn't something either one of them seemed particularly attracted to either. It was the commitment that mattered to them, not the paperwork. Kathryn scratched just above her eyebrow.

"Are you proposing to me?" He shrugged.

"Just thinking out loud." They spoke about the possibility of marriage like they were talking about what color to paint the hallway; the conversation was easy; free of fear and other pitfalls.

"We don't have to have a wedding do we? Because there's just no way. . ."

"No," he said firmly. The idea of crowds of people starting at the them, dress uniforms, Starfleet higher ups; the idea repulsed both of them. "Besides," he continued, "I've already had one wedding. I believe you were there, yes?"

"Very funny." She came over to him, putting her chin on his upper arm. "Why not? It's just forms, at the end of the day." She looked up to his face, her eyes now defiant. "But I'm not changing my name."

"That's fine. Neither did my first wife." She punched him. "Ouch!"

"Serves you right."

"I'll accept that." He kissed the tip of her nose and walked toward the living room. "But if I'm telling my father about this, you're telling your mother about there not being a wedding."

She froze.

"Care to renegotiate our deal? Perhaps we could tell your father together?"

"Nope, but nice try, Janeway."

She cursed in three languages, vowing to herself that she would take this out on his kitchen budget.

. . . . .

By the middle of April, almost all of the renovations were complete. B'Elanna, just finishing leave from the _Jackson_, dropped Miral off with Tom and Kathryn.

Regardless of B'Elanna's schedule, Tom now had Miral with him five months of the year. Kathryn had painted Miral's bedroom lilac with green trim, and Tom stenciled pictures of hippos (her favorite animal) on two of the walls. B'Elanna was polite, but it was the kind of politeness that she had greeted Janeway with the day Kathryn showed up outside Tom and B'Elanna's quarters on _Voyager_. Kathryn thought she couldn't exactly blame her, and Miral ran around the apartment, not seeming to notice the tension.

When B'Elanna left, Tom shook his head, looking contemplative and sad. Miral was playing in her room, and they sat, already a bit exhausted, on the couch.

"What's wrong, Tom?" She draped her leg over his and nuzzled into his shoulder. He looked at her and smiled wistfully.

"I don't feel guilty for this. Not one iota." She kissed his shoulder through his shirt. "But I'm convinced, somewhere in the back of B'Elanna's mind, this just confirmed every misguided thought she had about trusting people." She reached for his hand and dragged her lips across it, the cool wind from the patio blowing wisps of her hair into his face.

Two days after Miral arrived, Tom and Kathryn were married. It was done at Headquarters and took about ten minutes. They came home and made macaroni with Miral, choosing to eat on the living room's new wood floors.

The first Friday of May, Chakotay threw a party for them in Washington. It was as much of a reception as Kathryn and Tom were willing to have, and they timed it to coincide with the _Nighthawk_ being docked for routine maintenance. Harry, Rix, and the Chief all came, accompanied by their spouses, who were now happily living on board with them. O'Donnell hugged Tom fiercely, while Harry and Rix both congratulated Kathryn, kissing her on the cheek.

The _Nighthawk_ was now led by Captain Hanson, an unyielding CO whose attention to regulation far surpassed Tom and Kathryn's combined. Tom didn't press for details of their new working relationships, and Kathryn felt a flood of sympathy for Tom's former crew. She regaled Harry's wife Liz with tales of their husbands' misadventures on _Voyager_, and Harry helped Tom and Chakotay bring out the endless trays of food.

Dinner was held outside on the deck. The weather was glorious and the sun beamed down, highlighting Kathryn's auburn hair. Miral flitted back and forth between Kathryn and Tom, occasionally coming to rest in the laps of uncles Harry and Chakotay. When Tom leaned over and kissed Kathryn, Rix turned around to look at Harry and the O'Donnell.

"That reminds me." Rix grinned. "You two owe me your holodeck time for the next month."

"You three bet on my personal life? How horrifying." Tom straightened up as he spoke, trying to act aghast. No one was convinced and Rix rolled her eyes dramatically.

"This coming from the CO who once made his Lieutenant and best friend publicly sing the lyrics to "I'm a little teapot" for costing the alpha shift a win in the physical fitness training." Chakotay and O'Donnell lost it when Rix announced this. Harry hung his head in embarrassment, Liz putting a hand on her husband's arm while trying to stifle her own laugh.

"Tom, you didn't?" Kathryn looked between Tom and Harry.

"He did," Harry supplied, "and he even made me do it on the bridge."

Seven was laughing, too, her hand covering Kathryn's as she sat next to her. Tom chuckled into Miral's hair, and her little arms reached for Kathryn.

Years later, the large picture that hung in Kathryn and Tom's entryway was one of all them around that table, laughing and clinging to each other under the warm summer sun.


End file.
